All this was so alarming that we fell to
screaming and made such a hullabaloo that the nurse was obliged for
her own peace to reassure us. Then we wept, but more composedly, as we
remembered that there would be no more tea and cakes for us now at old
Mrs. Pontifex's.
On the day of the funeral, however, we had a great excitement; old
Mr. Pontifex sent round a penny loaf to every inhabitant of the
village according to a custom still not uncommon at the beginning of
the century; the loaf was called a dole. We had never heard of this
custom before; besides, though we had often heard of penny loaves,
we had never before seen one; moreover, they were presents to us as
inhabitants of the village, and we were treated as grown-up people,
for our father and mother and the servants had each one loaf sent
them, but only one. We had never yet suspected that we were
inhabitants at all; finally, the little loaves were new, and we were
passionately fond of new bread, which we were seldom or never
allowed to have, as it was supposed not to be good for us. Our
affection, therefore, for our old friend had to stand against the
combined attacks of archaeological interest, the rights of citizenship
and property, the pleasantness to the eye and goodness for food of the
little loaves themselves, and the sense of importance which was
given us by our having been intimate with someone who had actually
died.
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