So after a few questions put to Mr.Tracy, and more to Harold, who was summoned from the nursery to tell what he knew, and a look at the cold rigid face, a verdict was rendered of 'Frozen to death.' Then came the question of burial, as to when, and where, and at whose expense.

Quite a number of people had assembled and the little room was full.

Conspicuous among them was Peterkin, who, having been elected to an office, which necessitated a care for the expenditures of the village, was swelled with importance, and dying for a chance to be heard.
When Harold came into the room Jerry was with him.

She had refused to let him leave her, and he led her by the hand into the midst of the men, who grew as silent and respectful the moment she appeared as if she had been a woman instead of a little child, who could speak no word of their language, or understand what was said to her.

It was her mother lying there dead, and they made way for her as, catching sight of the white face, she uttered a cry of joy, and running up to the body, patted the cold cheeks, while she kept calling 'Mah-nee, Mah-nee,' and saying words unintelligible to all, but full of pathos and love, and child-like coaxing for the inanimate form to rouse itself, and speak to her again.
'Poor little thing,' was said by more than one, and hands went up to eyes unused to tears, for the sight was a touching one--that lovely child bending over the dead face, and imprinting kisses upon it.
Harold took her away from the body, and lifting her into a chair, kept by her, as with her arm around his neck, she stood listening to, and watching, and sometimes imitating the gestures of the men around her.
It was Peterkin who spoke first; standing back so straight that his immense stomach, with the heavy gold watch-chain hanging across it, seemed to fill the room, he gave his opinion before any one had a chance to express theirs.
It was the first time he had been in the house since the morning after the party, when Arthur had turned him from the door.