One of the party, at least, seemed in the very depths of misery.

"Can it be possible," said I to myself, "that this poor creature has only these scanty rags to cover her ?" Stepping back to my own room, I brought out a pretty calico wrapper, which I presented to the little, dirty, blackened object.

She took it, and commenced a fresh series of sobbing and sighing.

I made signs to her to put it on, opening it and explaining to her how it was to be worn, and recommending to her, by gestures, to lose no time in making herself more comfortable.
At this, the other women burst into a laugh.
"Very mal-a-propos," thought I, "and somewhat unfeeling." At that moment my husband, entering, explained to me that the chief mourner was Madame Four-Legs, the widow; that she had undoubtedly a comfortable wardrobe at home, but that it was part of the etiquette of mourning to go for a season with neglected persons and blackened faces.

All this was told me in the intervals of shaking hands, and offering and receiving condolences in the most uncouth, guttural language I had ever heard.
Their Father at length dismissed them, with a promise of some presents to help dry up their tears.