He is dressed in black, and looks as if he had lost all his friends during the night.

Miss Abigail, also in black, looks as if she were prepared to bury them, and not indisposed to enjoy the ceremony.

Even Kitty Collins has caught the contagious gloom, as I perceive when she brings in the coffee-urn--a solemn and sculpturesque urn at any time, but monumental now--and sets it down in front of Miss Abigail.

Miss Abigail gazes at the urn as if it held the ashes of her ancestors, instead of a generous quantity of fine old Java coffee.

The meal progresses in silence.
Our parlor is by no means thrown open every day.