. He took snuff and said his Matins
for to-morrow.

The necropolis of Rome is outside the Porta San Lorenzo, by the church
of that name. The bier drew up at the House of Deposit. When the coaches
discharged their occupants, Roma saw that except the paid servants of
the funeral she was the only mourner. The Countess's friends, like
herself, disliked the sight of churchyards.

The House of Deposit, a low-roofed chamber under a chapel, contained
tressels for every kind and condition of the dead. One place was
labelled "Reserved for distinguished corpses." The coffin of the
Countess was put to rest there until the buriers should come to bury it
in the morning, the wreaths and flowers and streamers were laid over it,
the priest sprinkled it again with holy water, and then the funeral was
at an end.

"I will not go back yet," said Roma, and thereupon the priest and his
assistants stepped into the carriages. The drivers lit cigarettes and
started off at a brisk trot.

It had been a gorgeous funeral, and the soul of the Countess would have
been satisfied. But the grinning King of Terrors had stood by all the
time, saying, "Vanity of vanities, all is vanity."

Roma bought a wreath of wild flowers at a stall outside the cemetery
gates, and by help of a paper given to her in the office she found the
grave of little Joseph. It was in a shelf of vaults like ovens, each
with its marble door, and a photograph on the front. They were all
photographs of children, sweet smiling faces, a choir of little angels,
now singing round the throne in heaven. The sun was shining on them, and
the tall cypress trees were singing softly in the light wind overhead.
Here and there a mother was trimming an oil-lamp that hung before her
baby's face, and listening to the little voice that was not dead but
speaking to her soul's soul.

Roma hung her wreath on Joseph's vault and turned away. Going out of the
gates she met a great concourse of people. At their head was a Capuchin
carrying a black wooden cross with sponge, spear, hammer and nails
attached. Two boys in blue and white carried candles by his side. The
crowd behind were of the poorest, chiefly women and girls with shawls
and handkerchiefs on their heads. It was Friday, and they were going to
the Church of San Lorenzo to make the procession of the Stations of the
Cross. Scarcely knowing why she did so, Roma followed them.

The people filled the Basilica. Their devotion was deep and touchin