The funeral took place late in the afternoon of a warm April day. The roads were very muddy, and the long procession wound back to the village about as slowly as it had gone out. One by one, wagon after wagon fell out of the line, and turned off to the right or left, until there were left only the Gunns' big carryall, in which sat Hetty, with her two house-servants,—an old black man and his wife, who had been in her father's house so long, that their original patronymic had fallen entirely out of use, and they were known as "CÆsar Gunn" and "Nan Gunn" the town over. Behind this followed their farm wagon, in which sat the farmer and his wife with their babies, and the two farm laborers,—all Irish, and all crying audibly after the fashion of their race. As they turned into the long avenue of pines which led up to the house, their grief broke out louder and louder; and, when the wagon stopped in front of the western piazza, their sobs and cries became howls and shrieks. Hetty, who was just entering the front-door, turned suddenly, and walking swiftly toward them, said, in a clear firm tone,—

"Look here! Mike, Dan, Norah, I'm ashamed of you. Don't you see you're frightening the poor little children? Be quiet. The one who loved my father most will be the first one to go about his work as if nothing had happened. Mike, saddle the pony for me at six. I am going to ride over to Deacon Little's."

The men were too astonished to reply, but gazed at her dumbly. Mike muttered sullenly, as he drove on,—

"An' it's a quare way to be showin' our love, I'm thinkin'."

"An' it's Miss Hetty's own way thin, by Jasus!" answered Dan; "an' I'd jist loike to see the man 'ud say, she didn't fairly worship the very futsteps of 'im."

When Deacon Little heard Hetty Gunn's voice at his door that night, the old man sprang to his feet as he had not sprung for twenty years.

"Bless my soul!" he exclaimed, "what can have brought Hetty Gunn here to-night?" and he met her in the hall with outstretched hands.

"Hetty, my dear, what is it?" he exclaimed, in a tone of anxiety.

"Oh!" said Hetty, earnestly. "I have frightened you, haven't I? was it wrong for me to come to-night? There are so many things I want to talk over with you. I want to get settled; and all the work on the farm is belated and I can't have the place run behindhand; that would worry father so."

The tears stood in her eyes, but she spoke in as matter-of-course a tone as if she had simply come as her father's messenger to ask advice. The old deacon pushed his spectacles high upon his forehead, and, throwing his head back, looked at Hetty a moment, scrutinizingly, in silence. Then, he said, half to himself, half to her,—

"You're your grandfather all over, Hetty. Now let me know what I can help you about. You can always come to me, as long as I'm alive, Hetty. You know that."

"Yes," said Hetty, walking back and forth in the little room, rapidly. "You are the only person I shall ever ask any thing of in that way."

"Sit down, Hetty, sit down," said the old man. "You must be all worn out."

"Oh, no! I'm not tired: I was never tired in my life," replied Hetty. "Let me walk: it does me good to walk; I walked nearly all last night; it seems to be something to do. You see, Mr. Little," she said,—pausing suddenly, and folding her arms on her breast, as she looked at him,—"I don't quite see my way clear yet; and one must see one's way clear before one can be quiet. It's horrible to grope."

"Yes, yes, child," said the deacon, hesitatingly. He did not understand metaphor. "You are not thinking of going away, are you, Hetty?"

"Going away!" exclaimed Hetty. "Why, what do you mean? How could I go away? Besides, I wouldn't go for any thing in the world. What should I go away for?"

"Well, I'm real glad to hear you say so, Hetty," replied the deacon warmly; "some folks have said, you'd most likely sell the farm, and go away."

"What fools! I'd as soon sell myself," said Hetty, curtly. "But I can't live there all alone. And one thing I wanted to ask you about to-night was, whether you thought it would do for your James and his wife to come and live there with me: I would give him a good salary as a sort of overseer. Of course, I should expect to control every thing; and that's not much more than I have done for three or four years: but the men will do better with a man to give them their orders, than they will with me alone. I could do this better with Jim than I could with a stranger. I've always liked Jim."

Deacon Little did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and his face flushed with agitation. At last he said huskily,—

"Would you really take Jim and Sally home to your house, to live with you, Hetty?"

"Why, certainly," replied Hetty, in an impatient tone, "that's what I said: didn't I make it plain?" and she walked faster and faster back and forth.

"Hetty, you're an angel," exclaimed the old man, solemnly. "If there's any thing that could make him hold up his head again, it would be just that thing. But—" he hesitated, "you know Sally?"

"Yes, yes, I know her. I know all about her. She's a poor, weak thing," said Hetty, with no shade of tenderness in her voice; "but Jim was the most to blame, and it's abominable the way people have treated her. I always wished I could do something for them both, and now I've got the chance: that is if you think they'd like to come."

The deacon hesitated again, began to speak, broke off, hesitated, tried again, and at last stammered:—

"Don't think I don't feel your kindness, Hetty; but, low's Jim's fallen, I don't quite feel like having them go into anybody's kitchen, especially with black help."

"Kitchen!" interrupted Hetty. "What do you take me for, Deacon Little? If Jim comes to live with me as my overseer, he is just the same as my partner in the place, so far as his position goes. How do you suppose I thought that the men would respect him, and take orders from him, if I meant to put him in the kitchen with CÆsar and Nan? No indeed, they shall live with me as if they were my brother and sister. There are plenty of rooms in the house for them to have their own sitting-room, and be by themselves as much as they like. Kitchen indeed! I think you've forgotten that Jim and I were schoolmates from the time we were six till we were twenty. I always liked Jim, and he hasn't had half a chance yet: that miserable affair pulled him down when he was so young."

"That's so, Hetty; that's so," said the deacon, with tears rolling down his wrinkled cheeks. "Jim wasn't a bad boy. He never meant to harm anybody, and he hasn't had any chance at all since that happened. It seems as if it took all the spirit right out of him; and Sally, she hasn't got any spirit either: she's been nothin' but a millstone round his neck. It's a mercy the baby died: that's one thing."

"I don't think so at all, Mr. Little," said Hetty, vehemently. "I think if the baby had lived, it would have strengthened them both. It would have made Sally much happier, at any rate. She is a motherly little thing."

"Yes," said the old man, reluctantly. "Sally's affectionate; I won't deny that: but"—and an expression of exceeding bitterness passed over his face—"I wish to the Lord I needn't ever lay my eyes on her face again! I can't feel right towards her, and I don't suppose I ever shall."

"I wouldn't wonder if the time came when she was a real comfort to you, Mr. Little," said Hetty, cheerily. "You get them to come and live with me and see what that'll do. I can afford to give Jim more than he can make at surveying. I have a notion he's a better farmer than he is engineer, isn't he?"

"Yes, there's nothing Jim don't know about a farm. I always did hope he'd settle down here at home with us. But we couldn't have Sally in the house: it would have killed Mrs. Little. It gives her a day's nervous headache now, long ago's 'tis, whenever she sees her on the street."

"Well, well," said Hetty, impatiently, "she won't give anybody nervous headaches in my house, poor little soul, that's certain; and the sooner they can come the better I shall like it. So you will arrange it all for me at once, won't you?"

Then Hetty went on to speak of some matters in regard to the farm about which she was in doubt,—as to certain fields, and crops, and what should be done with the young stock from last year. Presently the old clock in the hall struck nine, and the village bells began to ring.

Hetty sprang to her feet.

"Dear me!" she exclaimed, "I had no idea it was so late. I only meant to stay an hour. Nan will be frightened about me." And she was out of the house and on her pony's back almost before Deacon Little could say,—

"But, Hetty, ain't you afraid to go home by yourself. I can go with you's well's not."

"Bless me, no!" said Hetty. "I always ride alone. Polly knows the road as well as I do;" and she cantered off, saying cheerily, "Good-night, deacon, I can't tell you how much I'm obliged to you. Please see Jim's early's you can to-morrow: I want to get settled and begin work."

When Hetty reached home, the house was silent and dark: only one feeble light glimmered in the hall. As she threw open the door, old CÆsar and Nan rushed forward together from the kitchen, exclaiming, half sobbing,—

"Oh, Miss Hetty! Miss Hetty! we made sure you was killed."

"Nonsense, Nan!" said Hetty, goodnaturedly: "what put such an idea into your head? Haven't I ridden Polly many a darker night than this?"

"Yes'm," sobbed Nan; "but to-night's different. All our luck's gone: 'When the master's dead, the house is shook,' they say where I was raised. Oh, Miss Hetty! it's lonesome's death in the kitchen."

Hetty threw open the door into the sitting-room. "Put on a stick of wood, Nan, and make the fire blaze up," she said.

While Nan was doing this, Hetty lighted the lamps, drew down the curtains, and gave the room its ordinary evening look. Then she said,—

"Now, Nan, sit down: I want to talk with you," and Hetty herself sat down in her father's chair on the right hand of the fireplace.

"Oh, Miss Hetty!" cried Nan, "don't you go set in that chair: you'll die before the year's out if you do. Oh please, Miss Hetty! get right up;" and the poor old woman took forcible hold of her young mistress's arms, and tried to lift her from the chair.

"To please you, I will sit in another chair now, Nan, because I want you to be quiet and listen to me. But that will be my chair to sit in always, just as it used to be my father's; and I shall not die before the year's out, Nan, nor I hope for a great many years to come yet," said Hetty.

"Oh, no! please the Lord, Miss Hetty," sobbed Nan: "who'd take care of CÆsar an' me ef you was to die."

"But I expect you and CÆsar to take care of me, Nan," replied Hetty, smiling, "and I want to have a good talk with you now, and make you understand about our life here. You want to please me, don't you, Nan?"

"Oh, yes! Miss Hetty. You knows I do, and so does CÆsar. We wouldn't have no other missus, not in all these Norf States: we'd sooner go back down where we was raised."

Hetty smiled involuntarily at this violent comparison, knowing well that both CÆsar and Nan would have died sooner than go back to the land where they were "raised." But she went on,—

"Very well. You never need have any other mistress as long as I live: and when I die you and CÆsar will have money enough to make you comfortable, and a nice little house. Now the first thing I want you to understand is that we are going to live on here in this house, exactly as we did when my father was here. I shall carry on the farm exactly as he would if he were alive; that is, as nearly as I can. Now you will make it very hard for me, if you cry and are lonesome, and say such things as you said to-night. If you want to please me, you will go right on with your work cheerfully, and behave just as if your master were sitting there in his chair all the time. That is what will please him best, too, if he is looking on, as I don't doubt he very often will be."

"But is you goin' to be here all alone, Miss Hetty? yer don't know what yer a layin' out for, yer don't," interrupted Nan.

"No," replied Hetty: "Mr. James Little and his wife are coming here to stay. He will be overseer of the farm."

"What! Her that was Sally Newhall?" exclaimed Nan, in a sharp tone.

"Yes, that was Mrs. Little's name before she was married," replied Hetty, looking Nan full in the face with a steady expression, intended to restrain any farther remarks on the subject of Mrs. Little. But Nan was not to be restrained.

"Before she was married! Yes'm! an' a good deal too late 'twas she was married too. 'Deed, Miss Hetty, yer ain't never going to take her in to live with you, be yer?" she muttered.

"Yes, I am, Nan," Hetty said firmly; "and you must never let such a word as that pass your lips again. You will displease me very much if you do not treat Mrs. Little respectfully."

"But, Miss Hetty," persisted Nan. "Yer don't know"—

"Yes, I do, Nan: I know it all. But I pity them both very much. We have all done wrong in one way or another; and it is the Lord's business to punish people, not ours. You've often told me, Nan, about that pretty little girl of yours and CÆsar's that died when I was a baby. Supposing she had lived to be a woman, and some one had led her to do just as wrong as poor Sally Little did, wouldn't you have thought it very hard if the whole world had turned against her, and never given her a fair chance again to show that she was sorry and meant to live a good life?"

Nan was softened.

"'Deed would I, Miss Hetty. But that don't make me feel like seein' that gal a settin' down to table with you, Miss Hetty, now I tell yer! CÆsar nor me couldn't stand that nohow!"

"Yes you can, Nan; and you will, when you know that it would make me very unhappy to have you be unkind to her," answered Hetty, firmly. "She and her husband both, have done all in their power to atone for their wrong; and nobody has ever said a word against Mrs. Little since her marriage; and one thing I want distinctly understood, Nan, by every one on this place,—any disrespectful word or look towards Mr. or Mrs. Little will be just the same as if it were towards me myself."

Nan was silenced, but her face wore an obstinate expression which gave Hetty some misgivings as to the success of her experiment. However, she knew that Nan could be trusted to repeat to the other servants all that she had said, and that it would lose nothing in the recital; and, as for the future, one of Hetty's first principles of action was an old proverb which her grandfather had explained to her when she was a little girl,—

"Don't cross bridges till you come to them."