nd added hesitantly, after a moment,

"I have not had so much happiness, myself, but that I am greedy of it.
This day will stand out from all the days of my life. On it you, Joyce
Lavillotte, called me, George Dalton, friend!"

CHAPTER XXIV.

NIGHT WATCHERS.

The funeral of William Hapgood was over. Death had dignified him, and
few ventured to speak of him as "Bill," just now. Lucy had wept
convulsively in her very long and very black veil, and Tilly and Rufie
had sniveled on either side of her, after a last shrill quarrel over
which should wear the black jacket, and which the cape with a black
ribbon bow, that Joyce had provided.

The whole village had attended the obsequies at the pretty new church,
and favorably commented thereon. Mrs. Hemphill thought it a "turrible
waste" that they did not have the silver name-plate taken off the
casket, however, and declared solemnly:

"Them that buries silver's like to dig fur copper 'fore they die
theirselves."

But the women were all deeply impressed with Lucy's genteel mourning
costume, and felt an added respect for the little creature in her
trailing crepe. Marie and Babette were in and out continually, aiding
and suggesting, and Rachel had stayed with Lucy every night.

During one of these she and Babette had been asked to "sit up with the
corpse," Gus Peters and Dan being chosen to share their vigil. It had
taken much urging to induce Dan to feel it his duty, but at last he had
given in with a good grace, and appeared with Gus promptly at the
appointed hour. With these people a funeral was often the forerunner of
a wedding. It was quite the proper thing for those "keeping company"
together to sit out the long night hours beside the dead, and too often
a keg of liquor was tapped, over which hilarity reigned to a ghastly
degree.

There was no danger of that in this case, though. Neither Gus, nor Dan,
was of the drinking set, and Lucy had a horror of the stuff, so would
not have it in the house. All was decorum over the body of the man who
had been ruined by his own appetite.

They sat around the fire the cool fall evenings required, and talked in
low tones. Once in a while one or another of the boys would step into
the little room off, a minute, then come quietly back to the group. Bill
Hapgood had good care that night. But after a time the little group
seemed to disintegrate into pairs. Gus and Babette, sitting side by side
on the old lounge, dropped the