My mother was, I believe, just stunned with this last blow. My
aunt has told me that she did not cry; aunt Fanny would have been
thankful if she had; but she sat holding the poor wee lassie's hand and
looking in her pretty, pale, dead face, without so much as shedding a
tear. And it was all the same, when they had to take her away to be
buried. She just kissed the child, and sat her down in the window-seat
to watch the little black train of people (neighbours--my aunt, and one
far-off cousin, who were all the friends they could muster) go winding
away amongst the snow, which had fallen thinly over the country the night
before. When my aunt came back from the funeral, she found my mother in
the same place, and as dry-eyed as ever. So she continued until after
Gregory was born; and, somehow, his coming seemed to loosen the tears,
and she cried day and night, till my aunt and the other watcher looked at
each other in dismay, and would fain have stopped her if they had but
known how. But she bade them let her alone, and not be over-anxious, for
every drop she shed eased her brain, which had been in a terrible state
before for want of the power to cry.
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