One cheering thing happened on Thursday afternoon; a little girl came in with a pattern of "print," and he was able to match it. He had not been able to match anything out of his meagre stock before. He went in and told Minnie. The incident is mentioned lest the reader should imagine it was uniform despair with him.
The next morning, and the next, after the discovery, Winslow opened shop late. When one has been awake most of the night, and has no hope, what _is_ the good of getting up punctually? But as he went into the dark shop on Friday he saw something lying on the floor, something lit by the bright light that came under the ill-fitting door--a black oblong. He stooped and picked up an envelope with a deep mourning edge. It was addressed to his wife. Clearly a death in her family--perhaps her uncle. He knew the man too well to have expectations. And they would have to get mourning and go to the funeral. The brutal cruelty of people dying! He saw it all in a flash--he always visualised his thoughts. Black trousers to get, black crape, black gloves--none in stock--the railway fares, the shop closed for the day.
"I'm afraid there's bad news, Minnie," he said.
She was kneeling before the fireplace, blowing the fire. She had her housemaid's gloves on and the old country sun-bonnet she wore of a morning, to keep the dust out of her hair. She turned, saw the envelope, gave a gasp, and pressed two bloodless lips together.
"I'm afraid it's uncle," she said, holding the letter and staring with eyes wide open into Winslow's face. "_It's a strange hand!_"
Minnie opened the letter slowly, drew it out, hesitated, turned it over, saw the signature. "It's Mr. Speight!"
Minnie began to read. "_Oh!_" she screamed. She dropped the letter, collapsed into a crouching heap, her hands covering her eyes. Winslow snatched at it. "A most terrible accident has occurred," he read; "Melchior's chimney fell down yesterday evening right on the top of your uncle's house, and every living soul was killed--your uncle, your cousin Mary, Will and Ned, and the girl--every one of them, and smashed--you would hardly know them. I'm writing to you to break the news before you see it in the papers"--The letter fluttered from Winslow's fingers. He put out his hand against the mantel to steady himself.