Gratia's Trials — page 25: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

16 Se GRATIA’S TRIALS. ‘‘Who is it, Gratia?” he whispered, clinging to her skirts, and looking up with awe-stricken eyes. ‘¢ Mamma,” she. answered. ‘No, it isn’t Mamma would love me and kiss me. Mamma was not as white, and still, and cold. Gratia, what have they done with my mamma?” And kneeling there beside the bier of her dead mother, Gratia Kempfield tried to explain to her little brother the awful riddle and mystery of death. Meanwhile Ira Kempfield, sitting at his fireside in a sort of enforced idleness, more embarrassed than otherwise by the visits of condolence of his friends and neighbors, twirled his brown, toil-hardened fingers: round and round, and felt dimly that some great calamity had overtaken him. He had no care or trouble to assume—Miss Bassett took all that upon her own shoulders ; he felt her presence was a relief and a blessing. _**T don’t know what I should ever have done if it hadn’t been for her,” he kept saying. ‘‘I don’t know what would become of me if she wasn’t here now.” ‘‘Gratia,” said little Raymond, soberly, to his sister, as they were coming home, hand in hand, from the dreary village church-yard, where the nettles, and burdock, and trailing blackberry vines had been cleared away to make a grave for Ira Kempfield’s wife, ‘‘ will they put you and me in big holes in the church-yard like that when we die ?” ‘‘T suppose so, Raymond,” his sister answered, scarcely heeding his words. ‘‘'Then I don’t want ever to die!” ‘* Listen, dear,” said Gratia; ‘‘it is dark and dismal there now, but we will make it a beautiful flower garden. We will come there every day, and work, We will make her grave fair and bright with the autumn blossoms.” Thus she spoke, thinking inwardly, ‘At all events, the child onee not learn to Saas a fear and horror of his mother's grave,” Eomichbooks.co =