Chapter I

“I am sure they cannot care much for their sister, for not one of them had even a black ribbon on her bonnet,” said Mabel Grant, to her invalid sister.

“Nay, Mabel, you must not judge them harshly.”

“But only think of it! Even her mother did not so much as change her bonnet.”

“Probably they have views and opinions of their own upon the subject,” replied Mary Grant, feebly, for she was in the last stage of consumption,—that dreadful scourge of our northern clime,—and even the exertion of speaking a few words was exceedingly tiresome.

“And poor Ellen Lawson, our dear friend and schoolmate, one of the fairest and truest girls in the village—to think that she should go down to her early grave without even a show of mourning in her own family. It looks like sacrilege to me.”

“Nay, Mabel, your respect for a mere custom causes you to disregard the plainest dictates of charity.”

“I do not mean to be uncharitable.”

“I know it, Mabel; but you must remember that the practice of putting on mourning is only a custom; and there is no sacrifice of love or principle in disregarding the custom.”

“Well, I don’t know; I cannot think they loved poor Ellen as she deserved to be loved.”

“Why not?”

“Because, if they had, they would at least have shown a decent respect for her while they stood around her bier.”

“Did they seem to be cold, indifferent?” asked the invalid, with a great deal of interest.

“No; Mrs. Lawson was very much affected while in the cemetery. She sobbed as though her heart would break.”

“Indeed!”

“But it did not seem to be real, her dress was so inappropriate.”

“You wrong her, Mabel.”

“I hope I do.”

“You cannot see into the heart.”

“And her sisters, too, if they had not worn white bonnets, would have seemed like real mourners.”

“The heart weeps, Mabel, not the dress, nor even the tearful eye. Many a one in sable weeds has felt no sorrow for the loss of a parent or a friend.”

“That may be; but don’t you think yourself that white bonnets and blue dresses are very improper at the funeral of a near friend?”

“It would not be my taste, Mabel,” replied Mary with a faint smile. “But I wish to accord to every one the privilege of doing as they please in a matter of this kind.”

“So do I; of course they have the right to wear what they please.”

“You censure them, though.”

“Not censure them, Mary; I only say that it looks as though they did not care much for poor Ellen.”

“You impugn their motives; you ought to be charitable to them, however strange they may seem to act.”

“I will, sister; but if I had lost a friend, I should feel as though I was deficient in respect to the memory of that friend, if I did not put on mourning.”

Mary sighed; she knew not how soon that dear sister would be called upon to put on mourning for her. Even another day of existence might not be permitted her. She was calmly waiting the hour that would bear her from the scenes of earth to that brighter realm beyond the dark grave. Already she heard the music of the angel’s fluttering wing, and was ready to lay her head upon the lap of earth.

Mabel penetrated her sister’s thoughts, and turned away to hide a tear, which sprung unbidden to her eye.

“There are many things to be considered, Mabel, in relation to the custom of wearing mourning. For my part I think it would be far better if the practice was entirely discontinued.”

“Why, Mary! how strange you talk!”

“You can conceive how very disagreeable it must be for those who are waiting to consign the remains of a dear friend to the tomb, to be compelled to attend upon mantuamakers and milliners.”

Mabel had never thought of that before.

“No sooner has the spirit taken its flight, than the house of death is made the scene of commotion and confusion, by the preparations to appear in black. That holy sorrow, which craves solitude, is broken in upon by the cares of business—by the necessity of conforming to a mere fashion which requires the mourner to make a vain show.”

“Perhaps you are right, Mary; pray, do not talk any more. You are quite exhausted.”

Mary said no more. A shade of deep thought rested upon her pallid features. She was thinking how much more soothing it would be, when her redeemed spirit sped its flight, if her friends could only think of her while her lifeless clay remained with them, without the intrusion of milliners and dressmakers.