Then she buried her face in her hands and prayed that her mother might be comforted.
She tried to think of some good deeds her father had done; but, alas, poor child, she could think of none, though it seemed treacherous to his memory to try, and fail.
Two days later Harry Lang was laid in his grave.

Quite a crowd attended his funeral, but only four "mourners," and the chief of those four were the two he had wronged most, his widow and his child.
Tom Salter, who had shown himself kind and helpful and full of thought in this terrible time, went to support the widow, and Miss Patch, in spite of her lameness, and pain, and weakness, went too, as a mark of respect to those that were left, and as a companion for poor Jessie.
Everything was done as nicely and carefully as though the dead man had been the best of husbands and fathers; no outward mark of respect was lacking; but, though none spoke it aloud, each one felt, as they returned to the empty house, that there was none of that awful sense of blankness, of loss, of heartrending silence, which usually fills the house that death has visited, the feeling that something is gone which can never, never return.

There was, instead, almost a sense of relief, a feeling of peace.

They all tried not to feel it, and nothing would have made them admit it, even to themselves; but it was there--one of the most sad and awe-inspiring feelings of that dreadful day.
Tom Salter left them as soon as he had seen them home, and went up to his room to change into his every-day clothes.

His young, almost boyish face was very grave and thoughtful.