er."

"What made her?"

Then both started, for the woman who had sobbed came up behind them,
her brother, an elderly man, trying to hold her back.

"You stop, John," she cried. "I heard what she said, and I'm goin'
to tell her. I'm goin' to tell everybody. Nobody shall stop me.
There the minister spoke and spoke and spoke, and he never said a
word as to any good he'd done. I'm goin' to tell. I wanted to stan'
right up in the church an' tell everybody. He told me not to say a
word about it, an' I never did whilst he was livin', but now I'm
goin' to stan' up for the dead." The woman pulled herself loose
from her brother, who stood behind her, frightened, and continually
thrusting out a black-gloved hand of remonstrance. People began to
gather. The woman, who was quite old, had a face graven with hard
lines of habitual restraint, which was now, from its utter abandon,
at once pathetic and terrible. She made a motion as if she were
thrusting her own self into the background.

"I'm goin' to speak," she said, in a high voice. "I held my tongue
for the livin', but I'm goin' to speak for the dead. My poor husband
died twenty years ago, got his hand cut in a machine in Lloyd's, and
had lockjaw, and I was left with my daughter that had spinal
disease, and my little boy that died, and my own health none too
good, and--and he--he--came to my house, one night after the
funeral, and--and told me he was goin' to look out for me, and he
has, he has. That blessed man gave me five dollars every week of my
life, and he buried poor Annie when she died, and my little boy, and
he made me promise never to say a word about it. Five dollars every
week of my life--five dollars."

The woman's voice ended in a long-drawn, hysterical wail. The other
women who had been listening began to weep. Mrs. Pointdexter, when
she and Mrs. Zelotes moved on, was sobbing softly, but Mrs.
Zelotes's face, though moved, wore an expression of stern
conjecture.

"I'd like to know how many things like that Norman Lloyd did," said
she. "I never supposed he was that kind of a man."

She had a bewildered feeling, as if she had to reconstruct her own
idea of the dead man as a monument to his memory, and reconstruction
was never an easy task for the old woman.

Chapter XLV

A Short time after Norman Lloyd's death, Ellen, when she had reached
the factory one morning, met a stream of returning workmen. They
swung along, and on their faces were expressio