" said Hattie, "an' my mamma an' gran'ma
an' the rest."

"My Aunt Cordelia has invited the visiting lady next door," said Emmy
Lou.

But it was Sadie's hour. "Our minister's coming," said Sadie.

"Oh, Sadie," said Hattie, and while there was despair in her voice one
knew that in Hattie's heart there was exultation at the very awfulness
of it.

"Oh, Sadie," said Emmy Lou, and there was no exultation in the tones of
Emmy Lou's despair. Not that Emmy Lou had much to do--hers was mostly
the suiting of the action to some other's word. She was chosen largely
because of Hattie and Sadie who had wanted her. And then, too, Emmy
Lou's Uncle Charlie was the owner of a newspaper. The Exhibition might
get into its columns. Not that Miss Carrie cared for this herself--she
was thinking of the good it might do the school.

Emmy Lou's part was to weep when Sadie wept, and to point a chubby
forefinger skyward when Hattie mentioned the departure from earth of
the soldier parent, and to lower that forefinger footward at Sadie's
tearful allusion to an untimely grave.

Emmy Lou had but one utterance, and it was brief. Emmy Lou was to
advance one foot, stretch forth a hand and say, in the character of
orphan for whom no asylum was offered, "We know not where we go."

That very morning, at gray of dawn, Emmy Lou had crept from her own into
Aunt Cordelia's bed, to say it over, for it weighed heavily on her mind,
"We know not where we go."

As Emmy Lou said it the momentous import of the confession fell with
explosive relief on the _go_, as if the relief were great to have
reached that point.

It seemed to Aunt Cordelia, however, that the _where_ was the problem in
the matter.

Aunt Louise called in from the next room. Aunt Louise had large ideas.
The stress, she said, should be laid equally on _know not_, _where_, and
_go_.

Since then, all day, Emmy Lou had been saying it at intervals of half
minutes, for fear she might forget.

Meanwhile, it yet lacking a moment or so to two o'clock, the orphaned
heroines continued to linger at the gate, awaiting the hour.

"Listen," said Hattie, "I hear music."

There was a church across the street. The drug-store adjoined it. It was
a large church with high steps and a pillared portico, and its doors
were open.

"It's a band, and marching," said Hattie.

The orphaned children hurried to the curb. A procession was turning the
corner and coming toward them. On either sidewalk crowds of m