Every one who came near the bereaved mother committed the common mistake
of ignoring her loss. Even her daughters did this as much as possible; so
that in the place where the child's name had been on every lip it was no
longer heard.
Those who have endured such a loss know how the ear sickens for the sound
of a name which yet the tongue refuses to utter; how the heart stirs to
the music of it when at length it is pronounced.
Mr. Pretty did not understand this, but also he did not know the accepted
creed that of the newly dead it is kindest not to speak. He had not seemed
very fond of the child, had often complained of him as a hindrance when
Franky had wished to help him to grind the coffee or to clean the
currants, yet he had laid by a store of sayings and doings which he drew
on now for his mother's ear. Stories of Franky's naughtiness, even: of his
partiality for the neighbourhood of a certain drawer which contained
preserved cherries. Of his cheek in daring to address the assistant as
"Pretty" without the Mr., and, the youth objecting, his ready substitution
of an adjective which certainly was more descriptive of his appearance. Of
his riding on Mr. Pretty's back when he, in pursuit of his duty, must
crawl on all fours under the counter; his clinging to his legs when duty
again called him to mount the steps for the topmost shelf.
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