Cicely got up: she was white as snow now, but as quiet as snow ever wus.

Mr. Post got up, too, about the politest actin' man I ever see, a movin'
chairs out of the way, and a smilin', and a waitin' on us out. He was
ready to give plenty of politeness to Cicely, but no justice.

And I guess he was kinder sorry to see how white and sad she looked, for
he spoke out in a sort of a comfortin' voice,--

"You have had great sorrows, Mrs. Slide, but you have also a great deal to
comfort you. Just think of how many other widows have been left in
poverty, or, as you may say, penury, and you are rich."

Cicely turned then, and made the longest speech I ever heard her make.

[Illustration: LICENSED WRETCHEDNESS.]

"Yes, many a drunkard's wife is clothed in rags, and goes hungry to bed at
night, with her hungry children crying for bread about her. She can lie on
her cold pile of rags, with the snow sifting down on her, and think that
her husband, a sober, honest man once, was made a low, brutal wretch by
intemperance; that he drank up all his property, killed himself by strong
drink, was buried in a pauper's grave, and left a starving wife and
children, to live if they could. The cold of winter freezes her, the want
of food makes her faint, and to see her little ones starving about her
makes her heart ache, no doubt. I have plenty of money, fine clothes,
dainty food, diamonds on my fingers."

Says she, stretching out her little white hands, and smilin' the bitterest