One morning, two or three days after his return, Hiram presented himself at the house and inquired for Mrs. Tenant. On this occasion he was cased in a complete suit of the deepest black, with crape reaching to the very top of his hat. He was the picture of despairing grief.
It happened that Emma was not at home, so that Mrs. Tenant was not surprised that she should be sent for. She did not know Hiram had not inquired for her daughter. She came in with the impression that he was all that he should be; his failure to write often being thought quite excusable under the circumstances.
She had not, however, advanced three steps into the room before feeling there was something wrong.
Hiram, regarded in a certain light, presented a most comical, though most lugubrious appearance. He was so completely acting a part that his very looks and gestures, and, in short, the minutest movements of his body, were manifestly 'got up.' One would think an automaton had been employed and set to work to do a certain amount of mourning, and furnish the requisite quantity of family grief.
Nevertheless Mrs. Tenant advanced and greeted Hiram cordially.
He put out the tips of his fingers, produced his pocket handkerchief, as if to be ready for an overflow, but uttered no word, no articulate sound.
This continued for at least five minutes, Mrs. Tenant endeavoring to say something the while by way of condolence.
'I shall never recover from the shock,' at last he ejaculated; 'never!'
He did not look Mrs. Tenant in the face, but kept his eyes fixed on vacancy.
'I am very sorry Emma is not in, but you will not have to wait long,' remarked Mrs. Tenant at last.