The Burden Grows Heavier

Of the days which followed, Maddy had no distinct consciousness. She
only knew that other hands than hers cared for the dead, that in the
little parlor a stiff, white figure lay, that neighboring women stole
in, treading on tiptoe, and speaking in hushed voices as they
consulted, not her, but Mrs. Noah, who had come at once, and cared for
her and hers so kindly. That she lay all day in her own room, where
the summer breeze blew softly through the window, bringing the perfume
of summer flowers, the sound of a tolling bell, of grinding wheels,
the notes of a low, sad hymn, sung in faltering tones, and of many
feet moving from the door. Then friendly faces looked in upon her,
asking how she felt, and whispering ominously to each other as she
answered: "Very well; is grandpa getting better?"

Then Mrs. Noah sat with her for a time, fanning her with a palm-leaf
fan and brushing the flies away. Then Flora came up with a man whom
they called "Doctor," and who gave his sundry little pills and powders
dissolved in water, after which they all went out and left her there
with Jessie who had been crying, and whose soft little hands felt so
cool on her hot head, and whose kisses on her lips made the tears
start, and brought a thought of Guy, making her ask, "if he was at the
funeral." She did not know whose funeral, or why she used that word,
only it seemed to her that Jessie just came back from somebody's
grave, and she asked if Guy was there. "No," Jessie said; "mother
wanted to write and tell him, but we don't know where he is."