Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when I went into the parlour where he was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silently, and pondering in his elbow-chair. Miss Murdstone, who was busy at her writing-desk, which was covered with letters and papers, gave me her cold fingernails, and asked me, in an iron whisper, if I had been measured for my mourning.

I said: “Yes.”

“And your shirts,” said Miss Murdstone; “have you brought ’em home?”

“Yes, ma’am. I have brought home all my clothes.”