“Oh, it does not matter; I shall never wear it now; and, under such a blow as this, I am in no humor to find fault. Indeed, with my grief I neglect my household and my very children. I forget everything; what did I send for you for?” and she looked with lack-luster eyes full in Mrs. Baldwin's face.
“Jane did not say, ma'am, but I am at your orders.”
“Oh, of course; I am distracted. It was to pay the last tribute of respect to her dear memory. Ah! Baldwin, often and often the black dress is all; but here the heart mourns beyond the power of grief to express by any outward trappings. No matter; the world, the shallow world, respects these signs of woe, and let mine be the deepest mourning ever worn, and the richest. And out of that mourning I shall never go while I live.”
“No, ma'am,” said Baldwin soothingly.
“Do you doubt me?” asked the lady, with a touch of sharpness that did not seemed called for by Baldwin's humble acquiescence.
“Oh, no, ma'am; it is a very natural thought under the present affliction, and most becoming the sad occasion. Well, ma'am, the deepest mourning, if you please, I should say cashmere and crape.”
“Yes, that would be deep. Oh, Baldwin, it is her violent death that kills me. Well?”
“Cashmere and crape, ma'am, and with nothing white about the neck and arms.”
“Yes; oh yes; but will not that be rather unbecoming?”
“Well, ma'am—” and Baldwin hesitated.