The villagers, with that inevitable disappointment that always lingers after a funeral, went to their homes.

The children remained until night, under the illusion that it was Sunday.
Maggie spent the rest of the day, for the most part, alone in her room and thinking of her father.

Her bedroom, an attic with a sloping roof, contained all her worldly possessions.

In part because she had always been so reserved a child, in part because there had been no one in whom she might confide even had she wished it, she had always placed an intensity of feeling around and about the few things that were hers.
Her library was very small, but this did not distress her because she had never cared for reading.

Upon the little hanging shelf above her bed (deal wood painted white, with blue cornflowers) were The Heir of Redclyffe, a shabby blue-covered copy, Ministering Children, Madame How and Lady Why, The Imitation of Christ, Robinson Crusoe, Mrs.Beeton's Cookery Book, The Holy Bible, and The Poems of Longfellow.