They left the child alone. For a little time she sat down and wept, but her grief was not of a kind to waste itself in tears, while anything remained undone that could give comfort to others.
"They will bring her back—they will both come," she said, inly, checking her tears. "I will make up her bed, and find something for Isabel to eat; she had no breakfast, and did not relish the bread last night. If they find everything snug and tidy it will not seem so bad."
So the little girl went to work, putting everything in its place, and noiselessly removing the dust that had settled on the scant furniture. Alas, there was not much for her to do, for those desolated rooms contained few of the comforts that had once rendered them so cheerful. When the bed was arranged and the outer room swept, Mary sat down a moment, for grief and watching rendered her very weary, and she was so young that the profound stillness appalled her. Then there came a faint knock at the door, and she was arising to open it when Joseph stood on the threshold.
"I saw it all from the window, and thought that you might be glad to have some one sit with you," said the gentle boy, moving across the room.
Mary looked up, and these low words unsealed her grief again.
"Oh, Joseph! Joseph! they are gone. He is dead. He is lying in there, all alone!"
"I know it," answered the boy, sitting down by her, "and I was just thinking how strange it was that people so handsome and so good, should be sick and die off, when such poor creatures as you and I are left."
Mary looked up eagerly through her tears.
"Oh, you don't know how I prayed, and prayed that God would only take me, and let him live! But He wouldn't; He didn't think it best; here I am, stronger than ever, and there he is!"
The boy sat still and mused, with his eyes bent on the floor.