Once she stopped, and drew the back of her wet hand across her eyes, and once Helen heard her sigh; yet she did not speak of her sorrow, nor of Elder Dean's cruel words.

For a little while the two women were silent.
"Mrs.Davis," Helen said, at last, "I'm so sorry." It was a very simple thing to say, but it caught the woman's ear; it was different from any of the sympathy to which, in a dull, hopeless way, she had listened all that morning.

The neighbors had sighed and groaned, and told her it was "awful hard on her," and had pitied Tom for his terrible death; and then Mr.Dean had come, with fearful talk of justice, and of hell.
A big tear rolled down her face, and dropped into the tub.

"Thank you, ma'am," she said.
She made a pretense of turning towards the light of the one small window to see if the shirt was quite clean; then she began to wring it out, wrapping the twist of wet linen about her wrist.

When she spoke again, her voice was steady.
"Elder Dean 'lows I oughtn't to be sorry; he says I'd ought to be resigned to God's justice.