a slow and solemn pressure. The aisles were filled. The air was
heavy with the funeral flowers. The minister spoke at length,
descanting upon the character of the deceased, his uprightness and
strict integrity in business, avoiding pitfalls of admissions of
weaknesses with the expertness of a juggler. He was always regarded
as very apt at funerals, never saying too much and never too little.
The church was very still, the whole audience wrapped in a solemn
hush, until the minister began to pray; then there was a general
bending of heads and devout screening of faces with hands. Then all
at once a sob from a woman sounded from the rear of the church. It
was hysterical, and had burst from the restraint of the weeper.
People turned about furtively.

"Who was that?" whispered Mamie Brady, after a prolonged stare over
her shoulders from under her red frizzle of hair. "It ain't any of
the mourners."

Ellen shook her head.

"Do keep still, Mamie Brady," whispered Abby Atkins.

The sob came again, and this time it was echoed from the pew where
sat the members of the dead man's family. Mrs. Lloyd began weeping
convulsively. Her state of mind had raised her above natural
emotion, and yet her nerves weakly yielded to it when given such an
impetus. She wept like a child, and now and then a low murmur of
heart-broken complaint came from her lips, and was heard distinctly
over the church. Other women began to weep. The minister prayed, and
his words of comfort seemed like the air in a discordant medley of
sorrow.

Andrew Brewster's face twitched; he held his hands clutched tightly.
Fanny was weeping, but the old woman at the head of the pew sat
immovable.

When the services were over, and the great concourse of people had
passed around the casket and viewed the face of the dead, with keen,
sidewise observation of the funeral flowers, Mrs. Zelotes pressed
out as fast as she was able without seeming to crowd, and caught up
with Mrs. Pointdexter, who had sat in the rear of the church.

She came alongside as they left the church, and the two old women
moved slowly down the sidewalk, with lingering glances at the
funeral procession drawn up in front of the church.

"Who was that cryin' so in back; did you see?" asked Mrs. Zelotes of
Mrs. Pointdexter, whose eyes were red, and whose face bore an
expression of meek endurance of a renewal of her own experience of
sorrow.

"It was Joe Martin's wife," said she. "I sat just behind h