Free A White Heron and Other Stories by Sarah Orne Jewett

deal excited; so was she; but in a few moments she rose, cutting short his inconsequent description of affairs at the parsonage.
    â€œYou just put out the fire as best you can,” she said. “We’ll talk as we go along. There’s plenty o’ ashes there, I’m sure; I let the stove cool off considerable, for I was meanin’ to go to bed in another five minutes. The cat’ll do well enough. I’ll leave her plenty for to-morrow, and she’s got a place where she can crep in an’ out of the wood-shed. I’ll just slip on another dress and put the nails over the windows, an’ we’ll be right off.” She was quite herself again now; and, true to her promise, it was not many minutes before the door was locked, the house left in darkness, and Ezra Weston and Miss Peck were driving comfortably down the lane. The fog had all blown away, suddenly the stars were out, and the air was sweet with the smell of the wet bark of black birches and cherry and apple-trees that grew by the fences. The leaves had fallen fast through the day, weighted by the dampness until their feeble stems could keep them in place no longer; for the bright colors of the foliage there had come at night sweet odors and a richness of fragrance in the soft air.
    â€œâ€™T is an unwholesome streak o’ weather, ain’t it?” asked Ezra Weston. “Feels like a dog-day evenin’ now, don’t it? Come this time o’ year we want bracin’ up.”
    Miss Peck did not respond; her sympathetic heart was dwelling on the thought that she was going, not only to a house of mourning, but to a bereft parsonage. She would not have felt so unequal to soothing the sorrows of her every-day acquaintances, but she could hardly face the duty of consoling the new minister. But she never once wished that she had not consented so easily to respond to his piteous summons.
    There was a strangely festive look in the village, for the exciting news of Mrs. Elbury’s death had flown from house to house—lights were bright everywhere, and in the parsonage brightest of all. It looked as if the hostess were receiving her friends, and helping them to make merry, instead of being white and still, and done with this world, while the busy women of the parish were pulling open her closets and bureau drawers in search of household possessions. Nobody stopped to sentimentalize over the poor soul’s delicate orderliness, or the simple, loving preparations she had made for the coming of the baby which fretfully wailed in the next room.
    â€œHere’s a nice black silk that never was touched with the scissors!” said one good dame, as if a kind Providence ought to have arranged for the use of such a treasure in setting the bounds of the dead woman’s life.
    â€œDoes seem too bad, don’t it? I always heard her folks was well off,” replied somebody in a loud whisper; “she had everything to live for.” There was a great eagerness to be of service to the stricken pastor, and the kind neighbors did their best to prove the extent of their sympathy. One after another went to the room where he was, armed with various excuses, and the story of his sad looks and distress was repeated again and again to a grieved audience.
    When Miss Peck came in she had to listen to a full description of the day’s events, and was decorously slow in assuming her authority; but at last the house was nearly empty again, and only the watchers and one patient little mother of many children, who held this motherless child in loving arms, were left with Miss Peck in the parsonage. It seemed a year since she had sat in her quiet kitchen, a solitary woman whose occupations seemed too few and too trivial for her eager capacities and ambitions.
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    The autumn days went by, winter set in early, and Miss Peck was still mistress of the parsonage housekeeping. Her own cider was brought to the parsonage, and so were the