S.
been scolding? Or have the children been too much for you?"
"No; oh, no! it's bad news from home," and Christie's head went down
again, for a kind word was more than she could bear just then.
"Some one ill, I fancy? I'm sorry to hear it, but you must hope for
the best, you know," replied Mr. Fletcher, really quite exerting
himself to remember and present this well-worn consolation.
"There is no hope; Aunt Betsey's dead!"
"Dear me! that's very sad."
Mr. Fletcher tried not to smile as Christie sobbed out the
old-fashioned name, but a minute afterward there were actually tears
in his eyes, for, as if won by his sympathy, she poured out the
homely little story of Aunt Betsey's life and love, unconsciously
pronouncing the kind old lady's best epitaph in the unaffected grief
that made her broken words so eloquent.
For a minute Mr. Fletcher forgot himself, and felt as he remembered
feeling long ago, when, a warm-hearted boy, he had comforted his
little sister for a lost kitten or a broken doll. It was a new
sensation, therefore interesting and agreeable while it lasted, and
when it vanished, which it speedily did, he sighed, then shrugged
his shoulders and wished "the girl would stop crying like a
water-spout.
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