On the next morning, during the breakfast hour, Mrs. Condy broke the oppressive silence by asking of her husband the sum of fifty dollars.
"What for, Sarah?" said Mr. Condy, looking into her face with an expression of grave inquiry.
"It's the middle of the week now, you know, and therefore no time is to be lost in getting mourning. At any rate, it will be as much as a bargain to get dresses made by Sunday. Jane and Mary will have to go out this morning and buy the goods."
Mr. Condy did not immediately reply, but seemed lost in deep and somewhat painful thought. At length, he said, looking his wife steadily in the face, but with a kind expression on his countenance—
"Sarah, black dresses and an outside imposing show of mourning cannot make us any the more sorry for the loss of our dear little one," and his voice gave way and slightly trembled at the last word, and the moisture dimmed his eyes.
"Yes, but, Mr. Condy, it would seem wicked and unfeeling not to put on mourning," said his wife in an earnest voice, for the idea of non-conformity to the custom of society, so suddenly presented to her mind, obscured for the moment the heart-searching sorrow awakened by the loss of her youngest born and dearest. "How can you think of such a thing?"
"Why, father, it would never do in the world," added the eldest daughter, Jane. "I should feel condemned as long as I lived, if I were to neglect so binding a duty."
"And what would people say?" asked Mary, whose simple mind perceived at once the strongest motive that operated in favour of the mourning garments.
"I don't see, Mary," replied Mr. Condy, "that other people have any thing at all to do in this matter. We know our grief to be real, and need no artificial incitements to keep it alive. Black garments cannot add to our sorrow."
But Mrs. Condy shook her head, and the daughters shook their heads, and the end of the matter was, Mr. Condy's purse-strings were loosened, and the required amount of money handed over.