en and boys
accompanied it.

"It's a funeral," said Sadie, as if she intuitively divined the
mournful.

Hattie turned with a face of conviction. "I know. It's that big
general's funeral; they're bringing him here to bury him with the
soldiers."

"We'll never see a thing for the crowd," despaired Sadie.

Emmy Lou was gazing. "They've got plumes in their hats," she said.

"Let's go over on the church steps and see it go by," said Hattie, "it's
early."

The orphaned children hurried across the street. They climbed the
steps. At the top they turned.

There were plumes and more, there were flags and swords, and a band led.

But at the church with unexpected abruptness the band halted, turned, it
fell apart, and the procession came through; it came right on through
and up the steps, a line of uniforms and swords on either side from curb
to pillar, and halted.

Aghast, between two glittering files, the orphaned children shrank into
the shadow behind a pillar, while upstreamed from the carriages below an
unending line--bare-headed men, and ladies bearing flowers. Behind,
below, about, closing in on every side, crowded people, a sea of people.

The orphaned children found themselves swept from their hiding by the
crowd and unwillingly jostled forward into prominence.

A frowning man with a sword in his hand seemed to be threatening
everybody; his face was red and his voice was big, and he glittered with
many buttons. All at once he caught sight of the orphaned children and
threatened them vehemently.

"Here," said the frowning man, "right in here," and he placed them in
line.

The orphaned children were appalled, and even in the face of the man
cried out in protest. But the man of the sword did not hear, for the
reason that he did not listen. Instead he was addressing a large and
stout lady immediately behind them.

"Separated from the family in the confusion, the grandchildren
evidently--just see them in, please."

And suddenly the orphaned children found themselves a part of the
procession as grandchildren. The nature of a procession is to proceed.
And the grandchildren proceeded with it. They could not help themselves.
There was no time for protest, for, pushed by the crowd which closed and
swayed above their heads, and piloted by the stout lady close behind,
they were swept into the church and up the aisle, and when they came
again to themselves were in the inner corner of a pew near the front.

The chu