Curious to know what the matter could be, I quitted the shop, and went into the parlour, where I saw my mother with her face buried in the sofa pillow, and apparently in great distress.
“What’s the matter, mother?” said I.
“Oh! my child, my child!” replied my mother, wringing her hands, “you are an orphan, and I am a lonely widow.”
“How’s that?” said I.
“How’s that?” said my grandmother, “why, are you such a fool, as not to understand that your father is dead?”
“Father’s dead, is he?” replied I, “I’ll go and tell Aunt Milly;” and away I went out of the parlour to Milly, whom I found reading the newspaper.
“Aunt,” said I, “father’s dead, only to think! I wonder how he died!”
“He was killed in action, dear,” said my aunt; “look here, here is the account, and the list of killed and wounded. D’ye see your father’s name—Benjamin Keene, marine?”
“Let me read all about it, Aunt Milly,” replied I, taking the paper from her; and I was soon very busy with the account of the action.
My readers must not suppose that I had no feeling, because I showed none at my father’s death; if they call to mind the humble position in which I had always seen my father, who dared not even intrude upon the presence of those with whom my mother and I were on familiar terms, and that he was ordered about just like a servant by my mother, who set me no example of fear or love for him, they will easily imagine that I felt less for his death than I should have for that of Captain Bridgeman, or many others with whom I was on intimate terms.