Poor Uncle could not take it in.
"But, Susan, Alferd be lost."
"'Twas a shell. They couldn't find 'un, because there was nothing to find."
To her dismay, Uncle bowed his head upon his hands and wept like a woman, shedding the copious tears that might have softened the hard eyes steadily regarding him. He had loved Alfred. Susan knew this. He could have better spared one of his own sons rather than this kindly, affectionate nephew. She rose quietly and fetched the letter, giving him time to recover his self-control. As she held out the letter, he raised a face to hers so seamed by grief and pain that almost, almost her heart melted within her. He read the letter and returned it. She put it away, and took a chair upon the other side of the hearth. Uncle gazed about him, noting, as men do upon such occasions, trifles that escape notice in happier times. The coffin stools stood in their old place against the wall. Uncle pointed at them, with trembling finger:
"Fancy be dead, too."
"No. She be more like herself to-day, although tarr'ble weak. They stools be for me, Habakkuk. The sooner I goes the better."
No inflection of resignation tempered this statement. Uncle, like Hamlin, realised the futility of condolence, but silence imposed too great a burden upon him.
"You has the baby," he suggested.
"She belongs to Fancy. I bain't afeard for they two."
"Be you afeard for yourself, Susan?"