Wells read the Scriptures, and in due time was launched upon his funeral oration. It was a great occasion, and he hoped to rise to it in an effective manner; and the only visible proofs he could bring of his effectiveness were tears. Therefore, for tears he sought. He began with general principles, proving by the kings of the past ("Where are they now?") that all must die. The audience, caring nothing for the kings of the past, and feeling little uneasiness about their own present condition, listened in dry enjoyment of the

scene.

Even Mary, with her constitutional, if not inherited piety, found herself taking pride in the erect form of Peter, and in his uplifted face which promised so much for the Thornberry dignity. Here was a young man determined at any sacrifice to rise above his fellows, to make the name of Thornberry not only honored, but feared. He had even set himself the task of improving his immediate family. Mary was proud because he was her cousin, though but distantly related. She was prouder still that he had always shown preference for her society.

She woke with a start to the deepening voice of the minister. What would Peter think, could he know that her mind had wandered from the solemnity of the scene to playing in a garden of fragrant thoughts?

By this time, Atterton was shedding tears. He was the first of the family to succumb. Winthrop Thornberry followed his son to defeat. The Rev. Mr. Wells had his eye upon Ethel, but that young lady sat like a rigid statue, draped in black. The speaker had reached that part of his discourse beginning, "Nevermore will you gaze upon," etc. Ethel showed no sign. Atterton was deeply affected. He recalled a year of dis

sipation, and remembered how he had refused to come home to his sick mother, alleging business as an excuse when, in fact, he hesitated to leave a gay life for a home of shadows. He had, of course, believed that his mother would recover.

"I would have come," he told himself, "if I had known it was serious."

"Nevermore . . ." came the impressive voice from the pulpit. There were times when the Rev. Mr. Wells felt that the choir had the best of him; but now they were thrown into complete, if momentary, oblivion, piano, organ and all. Peter, seated beside Atterton, felt uneasily that his model-for he had long since accepted Atterton as his model-should not show grief so openly. He had always maintained, and usually with justice, that Atterton's behavior in public was irreproachable. These copious tears astonished and annoyed the Thornberry mentor. They seemed in a way common, even vulgar. They were giving people something to talk about, and Peter had a horror of gossip. He slyly slipped his foot over the carpet and trod upon Atterton's toes, at the same time giving the minister at look that ought to have dried his eloquence. But the orator saw only Ethel. If he could make that haughty head droop, the day was won! Atterton sought to compose himself.

He realized that he was making an exhibition for the eyes of Core City, but for a time his repentant heart had burst the chains of conventionality. Winthrop was drying his eyes at this unusual exhibition of feeling upon his son's part. Ethel slipped her hand into her father's and grasped "I am here," it seemed to say.

it.

Outwardly, she remained cold stone to the last.

It was half-past four when the audience was invited

to pass up the right aisle, view the remains, and pass down the left aisle to the outer air. In the breaking of the ranks, people found themselves grouped in the front yard while waiting for the dead to be brought forth. A long line of empty carriages stood ready to carry relatives and friends to the cemetery.

"Cousin Winthrop," George Nicodemus remarked to Hodgins, "is doing things in style-hey, Hodge?" "That's right, Nick. Cousin Timothy," he addressed the old captain, "what did you think of the sermon? It seemed to me the first part was over the heads of the audience."

“I think I clumb up and got 'most all there was," said the captain. Finding himself at Mrs. Hodgins Thornberry's side, the old gentleman pulled his white beard nervously and murmured, "There, there, Cousin Marietta, don't feel so bad! Let us hope that Cousin Winthrop's wife has gone to a place where she'll feel closer kin to us than she ever felt down here."

Mrs. Hodgins Thornberry dried her eyes hastily. "I'd never a-thought there was a tear in me for Cousin Winthrop's wife," she murmured hysterically. "I don't know now precisely what I'm crying for."

Groner Thornberry said, with an air of conviction, "Cousin Winthrop's wife is better off. We must all die."

Goldie Pickens, standing on the grassplot beneath the large stained window, looked up, and there was Peter. What a surprise for her! As in quick and unpremeditated impulse, she held out her hand to him, "I, too, have suffered," said Goldie, her eyes large and solemn. "I suffer now with you, my friend."

Peter took the slim hand eagerly. His fingers closed upon it tightly. He felt greatly comforted. Even

when his grasp relaxed, she let her hand lie in his, like a cool pledge of ethereal affection. He was thrilled by her touch, by her calling him "my friend," by her steadfast, gentle, seraphic gazing.

Mary saw them standing thus, and her honest eyes showed a faint touch of surprise. Goldie caught a glimpse of Mary with the tail of her black eye, and for a moment her lids drooped while her expression suggested that the earth offered nothing proper enough for her to gaze upon, but when she looked up,-carefully keeping her blue eye next to Peter,-Mary had already passed on.

"Such a dear girl, your Cousin Mary," murmured Goldie.

CHAPTER VIII

GOLDIE PICKENS stood upon Mrs. Eden's front porch bidding a new music-pupil adieu. The girl had said. rather ungraciously: "I haven't the least taste for music, Miss Pickens. I'm sure I shan't practise. But mother was so pleased at your filling the place of the regular organist, that she said I had to take; so here I am." In Mrs. Eden's front room where Goldie's piano was installed, the girl had "taken" with a cold, set face, as if the music were some contagious disease.

Goldie watched her depart; a plan was revolving in her mind. In vain, Groner in his lamblike voice,-he had a lamblike voice for favorites, and a lionlike voice for his immediate family,-petitioned the music-teacher to come and read aloud to him under the budding apple

trees.

"Cousin Groner," said Goldie sweetly, "if you will go to the post office for me, I will never be able to repay you for your kindness; I hope to receive a letter from my venerable pastor." Groner Thornberry eagerly seized his crutch, ravished at being called "cousin" by the charming lady of the angelic voice. Thus having disposed of Groner to his delight, and her convenience, the young lady withdrew to her bedroom, which, thanks to a folding-bed, happily disguised its primary function. Goldie drew forth her writing-desk and began a note to Winthrop Thornberry. Occasionally she paused to stare blankly from the window. Being alone, it was unnecessary to pose; and it was as if the great loneli