Near the window in her little cottage, not far from the Rectory, sat Mrs. Larkins, busily knitting. She was a woman of superior qualities and had seen better days. Her toil-worn hands and care-marked face could not disguise the gentle, refined spirit within, which expressed itself in her every word and action. Two little graves in the Churchyard, lying side by side, and marked by a small cross of white marble, told how the silent messenger had entered that home. Often the husband and wife were seen standing by those little mounds, while tears coursed down their rugged, honest cheeks.
"No father could have been kinder than Parson John," she had frequently remarked when speaking about their loss, "and no sister more sympathetic than dear Nellie. They loved our little ones as if they were their very own. On that bright summer day when we laid our lambs to rest the parson's voice faltered as he read the Burial Service, and tears glistened in his eyes."
Since then whatever happened of joy or sorrow at the Rectory was of the deepest interest to the lonely two over the way. So on this bright afternoon as Mrs. Larkins sat by the window her thoughts were busy with the events of the past night.
A knock upon the door broke her reverie. Opening it, what was her surprise to find there a woman, with an old-fashioned shawl about her shoulders, and a bright, jolly face peering forth from a capacious grey hood.
"Mrs. Stickles!" she exclaimed. "Is it really you? Why, I haven't seen you for such a long time! Come in at once, and lay off your wraps, while I make you a cup of tea, for you must be chilled through and through."
"Indeed, I am," Mrs. Stickles replied, bustling into the room, and untying her hood. "Sammy hed to bring the old mare to the blacksmith shop to git shod, an' John, my man, sez to me, 'Mother,' sez he, 'ye jist put on yer duds, an' go along, too. It'll do ye a world o' good.' I hated to leave John, poor soul, he's so poorly. But I couldn't resist the temptation, an' so I come. My, that's good tea!" she ejaculated, leaning back in a big, cosy chair. "Ain't that tumble about old Billy Fletcher, an' him sich a man!"
"You've heard about his death, then?" Mrs. Larkins replied.
"Should think I hed. We stopped fer a minute at the store. I wanted to git some calicer fer the girls, an' while I was thar I heerd Tom Flinders an' Pete Robie talkin' about it. Why, it was awful! An' to think the dear old parson was thar all alone! When Pete told me that I jist held up me hands in horror. 'Him thar with that dyin' man!' sez I. 'Jist think of it!'
"'I guess he didn't mind it,' sez Si Farrington, who was awaitin' upon me. 'He likes jobs of that nater.' I don't know what in the world he meant. I s'pose ye've heerd all about it, Mrs. Larkins?"
"Yes," came the somewhat slow reply. "I've heard too much."