Matches, stretched out on the floor as dead as a mummy. The tobacco
had poisoned her. Phil was crying over her as if his heart would
break. He didn't know what had killed her, and the boys did not see
fit to tell. As for me, I remembered my lesson, never to say any more
than I ought to say, and discreetly folded my hands over my mouth
whenever the subject was mentioned.

I have no doubt but that I could have eaten as much tobacco as Matches
did, and escaped with only a short illness, but the sickly little
mossback didn't have the constitution that we ring-tails have. She was
a poor delicate creature that the least thing affected. I couldn't
help feeling sorry for her, and yet I was so glad to be rid of her
that I capered around for sheer joy. When I realised that never again
would I be kept awake by her snoring, never again would I be disturbed
by her disagreeable ways, and that at last I was even with her for
spilling me out of my berth on the sleeping-car, I swung on my
turning-pole until I was dizzy. No one knew what a jubilee I had all
alone that night in my little room under the eaves.

Little did I dream of the humiliation in store for me. The next day I
found that Matches was to have a funeral after school, and that I--I,
who hated her--was to take the part of chief mourner. The boys took
off my spangled jacket and dressed me up in some clothes that belonged
to Elsie's big Paris doll. They left my own little cap on my head, but
covered it and me all over with a long crape veil that dragged on the
ground behind me and tripped me up in front when I tried to walk. It
was pinned tightly over my face, and I nearly smothered, for it was a
hot September afternoon. I sputtered and gasped under the nasty black
thing until I was almost choked. It was so thick I could scarcely
breathe through it, but the more I sputtered the more it pleased the
children. They said I seemed to be really crying and sobbing under my
veil, and that I was acting my part of chief mourner beautifully.

All the children of the neighbourhood came to the funeral. There was a
band to lead the procession; a band of three boys, playing on a French
harp, a jew's-harp, and a drum. Johnny Grey's Newfoundland dog was
hitched to the little wagon that held Matches's coffin. Phil drove,
sitting up solemnly in his father's best high silk hat with its band
of crape. It was much too large for his head, and slipped down over
his curls until the brim rested on th