The little grave was dug, the bell tolled, and a man bowed double with grief saw his child and his ambition laid in the dust.
Lady Bassett heard the bell tolled, and spoke but two words: “Poor woman!”
She might well say so. Mrs. Bassett was in the same condition as herself, yet this heavy blow must fall on her.
As for Richard Bassett, he sat at home, bowed down and stupid with grief.
Wheeler came one day to console him; but, at the sight of him, refrained from idle words. He sat down by him for an hour in silence. Then he got up and said, “Good-by.”
“Thank you, old friend, for not insulting me,” said Bassett, in a broken voice.
Wheeler took his hand, and turned away his head, and so went away, with a tear in his eye.
A fortnight after this he came again, and found Bassett in the same attitude, but not in the same leaden stupor. On the contrary, he was in a state of tremor; he had lost, under the late blow, the sanguine mind that used to carry him through everything.
The doctor was upstairs, and his wife's fate trembled in the balance.
“Stay by me,” said he, “for all my nerve is gone. I'm afraid I shall lose her; for I have just begun to value her; and that is how God deals with his creatures—the merciful God, as they call him.”