rch, the offices of the parson, and the soprano's voice from
behind the flowers, singing "Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me"--Marthy's
favorite hymn--brought the tears trickling, but he could not believe
that what had happened had happened. He got through the melancholy honor
of riding in the first hack in the shabby pageant, though the town
looked strange from that window. He shivered stupidly at the first sight
of the trench in the turf which was to be the new lodging of his family.
He kept as quiet as any of the group among the mounds while the
bareheaded preacher finished his part.

He was too numb with incredulity to find any expression until he heard
that awfulest sound that ever grates the human ear--the first shovelful
of clods rattling on a coffin. Then he understood--then he woke. When he
saw the muddy spade spill dirt hideously above her lips, her cheeks, her
brow, and the little bundle of futile flesh she cuddled with a rigid arm
to a breast of ice--then a cry like the shriek of a falling tree split
his throat and he dropped into the grave, sprawling across the casket,
beating on its denying door, and sobbing:

"You mustn't go alone, Marthy. I won't let you two go all by yourselves.
It's so fur and so dark. I can't live without you and the--the baby.
Wait! Wait!"

They dragged him out, and the shovels concluded their venerable task. He
was sobbing too loudly to hear them, and the parson was holding him in
his arms and patting his back and saying "'Shh! 'Shh!" as if he were a
child afraid of the dark.

The sparse company that had gathered to pay the last devoir to the
unimportant woman in the box in the ditch felt, most of all, amazement
at such an unexpected outburst from so expectable a man as William Rudd.
There was much talk about it as the horses galloped home, much talk in
every carriage except his and the one that had been hers.

Up to this, the neighbors had taken the whole affair with that splendid
philosophy neighbors apply to other people's woes. Mrs. Budd Granger had
said to Mrs. Ad. Peck when they met in Bostwick's dry-goods store, at
the linen counter:

"Too bad about Martha Rudd, isn't it? Plain little body, but nice. Meant
well. Went to church regular. Yes, it's too bad. I don't think they
ought to put off the strawb'ry fest'val, though, just for that, do you?
Never would be any fun if we stopped for every funeral, would there?
Besides, the strawb'ry fest'val's for charity, isn't it?"

The st