would come round and put his hand on our
shoulders, and ask us in a low voice if he
had said anything to hurt us? I did not
wonder at his speaking so to Deborah, for
she was so clever; but I could not bear to
hear him talking so to me.

"But, you see, he saw what we did not—
that it was killing my mother. Yes! killing
her—(put out the candle, my dear! I can
talk better in the dark)—for she was but a
frail woman, and ill fitted to stand the fright
and shock she had gone through; and she
would smile at him, and comfort him, not in
words, but in her looks and tones, which
were always cheerful when he was there.
.And she would speak of how she thought
Peter stood a good chance of being admiral
very soon he was so brave and clever; and
how she thought of seeing him in his navy
uniform, and what sort of hats admirals
wore, and how much more fit he was to be
a sailor than a clergyman; and all in that
way, just to make my father think she was
quite glad of what came of that unlucky
morning's work, and the flogging, which was
always in his mind, as we all knew. But,
oh, my dear! the bitter, bitter crying she
had when she was alone;—and at last, as
she grew weaker, she could not keep her
tears in, when Deborah or me was by, and
would give us message after message for
Peter,—(his ship had gone to the Mediterranean,
or somewhere down there, and then
he was ordered off to India, and there was no
overland route then);—but she still said
that no one knew where their death lay in
wait, and that we were not to think hers
was near. We did not think it, but we knew
it, as we saw her fading away.

"Well, my dear, it's very foolish of me, I
know, when in all likelihood I am so near
seeing her again." But Miss Matey was
not foolish, poor dear thing!

"And only think, love! the very day after
her death—for she did not live quite a
twelve-month  after Peter went away—the very day
after came a parcel for her from India—
from her poor boy. It was a large, soft, white
India shawl, with just a little narrow border
all round; just what my mother would have
liked. We thought it might rouse my father,
for he had sat with her hand in his all night
long; so Deborah took it in to him, and
Peter's letter to her, and all. At first, he took
no notice; and we tried to make a kind of
light careless talk about the shawl, opening it
out and admiring it. Then, suddenly, he got
up, and spoke:—'She shall be buried in it,' he
said; 'Peter shall have that comfort; and
she would have liked it.' Well! perhaps it
was not reasonable, but what could we do or
say? One gives people in grief their own way.
He took it up and felt it—  ' It is just such a
shawl as she wished for when she was married,
and her mother did not give it her. I did not
know of it till after, or she should have had
it—she should; but she shall have it now.'

"My mother looked so lovely in her death!
She was always pretty, and now she looked
fair, and waxen, and young—younger than
Deborah, as she stood trembling and shivering
by her. We decked her in the long soft
folds; she lay, smiling, as if pleased; and
people came—all Cranford came—to beg to
see her, for they had loved her dearly—as well
they might; and the country-women brought
posies; old Clare's wife brought some white
violets, and begged they might lie on her
breast.

"Deborah said to me, the day of my mother's
funeral, that if she had a hundred offers, she
never would marry and leave my father. It
was not very likely she would have so many—
I don't know that she had one; but it was
not less to her credit to say so. She was
such a daughter to my father, as I think there
never was, before or since. His eyes foiled
him, and she read book after book, and wrote,
and copied, and was always at his service in
any parish business. She could do many more
things than my poor mother could; she even
once wrote a letter to the bishop for my
father. But he missed my mother sorely; the
whole parish noticed it. Not that he was less
active; I think he was more so, and more
patient in helping every one. I did all I
could to set Deborah at liberty to be with
him; for I knew I was good for little, and
that my best work in the world was to do
odd jobs quietly, and set others at liberty.
But my father was a changed man."

"Did Mr. Peter ever come home?"

"Yes, once. He came home a Lieutenant;
he did not get to be Admiral. And he and
my father were such friends! My father
took him into every house in the parish, he
was so proud of him. He never walked out
without Peter's arm to lean upon. Deborah
used to smile (I don't think we ever laughed
again after my mother's death), and say she
was quite put in a corner. Not but what my
father always wanted her when there was
letter-writing, or reading, to be done, or
anything to be settled."

"And then?" said I, after a pause,

"Then Peter went to sea again; and,
by-and-bye, my father died, blessing us both,
and thanking Deborah for all she nad been
to him; and, of course, our circumstances
were changed; and, instead of living at the
Rectory, and keeping three maids and a man,
we had to come to this small house, and be
content with a servant-of-all-work; but, as
Deborah used to say, we have always lived
genteelly, even if circumstances have
compelled us to simplicity.—Poor Deborah!"

"And, Mr. Peter?" asked I.

"Oh, there was some great war in India—
I forget what they call it—and we have never
heard of Peter since then. I believe he is
dead, myself; and it sometimes fidgets me
that we have never put on mourning for him.
And then, again, when I sit by myself, and all
the house is still, I think I hear his step