Going Into Mourning

THE weeping mother bent over the beautiful form of innocent childhood--beautiful still, though its animating spirit had fled--and kissed the pale cheek of her dear departed one. When she lifted her head, a tear glistened on the cold brow of the babe. Then the father looked his last look, and, with an effort, controlled the emotion that wellnigh mastered him. The sisters came next, with audible sobs, and cheeks suffused with tears. A moment or two they gazed upon the expressionless face of their dear little playfellow, and then the coffin lid was shut down, while each one present experienced a momentary feeling of suffocation.

As the funeral procession came out of the door, and the family passed slowly across the pavement to the carriages, a few gossiping neighbours--such as, with no particular acquaintance with the principal members of a household, know all about the internal management of every dwelling in the square--assembled close by, and thus discoursed of the events connected with the burying.

"Poor Mrs. Condy," said one, "how can she bear the loss of that sweet little fellow!"

"Other people have lost children as well as she," remarked a sour-looking dame. "Rich people, thank heaven! have to feel as well as we poor folks."

No one seemed disposed to reply to this; and there was a momentary silence.

"They've got up mourning mighty quick," said a third speaker. "Little Willie only died yesterday morning."

"It's most all borrowed, I suppose," responded a fourth.

"Hardly," said the other.

"Yes, but I know that it is, though," added the individual who made the allegation of borrowing; "because, you see, Lucy, the chambermaid, told me last night, that Mrs. Condy had sent her to borrow her sister's black bombazine, and that the girls were all hard enough put to it to know where to get something decent to attend the funeral in."

"No doubt, they thought more about mourning dresses, than they did about the dead child," remarked the cynic of the group.

"It's a shame, Mrs. Grime, for you to talk in that way about any one," replied the woman who had first spoken.

"It's the truth, Mrs. Myers," retorted Mrs. Grime. "By their works ye shall know them. You needn't tell me about people being so dreadful sorry at the loss of friends when they can make such a to-do about getting black to wear. These bombazine dresses and long black veils are truly enough called mourning--they are an excellent counterfeit, and deceive one half of the world. Ah, me! If all the money that was spent buying in mourning was given to the poor, there would be less misery in the world by a great deal."

And while the little group, attracted by the solemn pageant, thus exercised the privilege of independent thought and