xed glances at a group of strangers on his right, and
then at his list. He was quite sure that they were not mentioned
thereon. Once he looked perplexedly at Paulina Maria, but she was
singing hard, in a true strong voice, and did not heed him. The
strangers sat behind her. There was a large man, lumbering and
uncomfortable in his best clothes, a small woman, and three little
girls, all dressed in blue delaine gowns and black silk mantillas and
blue bonnets.

The minister had a strong conviction that these people should be
mentioned in his prayer. He gave his daughter Eliza a little nudge,
and looked inquiringly at them and at her, but she shook her head
slightly--she did not know who they were. Her father had to content
himself with vaguely alluding in his petition to all other relatives
of this afflicted family.

During the eulogy upon the departed, which followed, he made also
casual mention of the respect in which he was held by strangers as
well as by his own towns-people. The minister gave poor Abel a very
good character. He spoke at length of his honesty, industry, and
sobriety. He touched lightly upon the unusual sadness of the
circumstances of his death. He expressed no doubt; he gave no hints
of any dark tragedy. "Don't speak as if you thought he killed
himself; if you do, it'll make her about crazy," Paulina Maria had
charged him. Ann, listening jealously to every word, could take no
exception to one. Solomon Wells was very mindful of the feelings of
others. He seemed at times to move with a sidewise motion of his very
spirit to avoid hurting theirs.

After dwelling upon Abel Edwards's simple virtues, fairly dinning
them like sweet notes into the memories of his neighbors, Solomon
Wells, with a sweep of his black coat-skirts around him, sat down.
Then there was a solemn and somewhat awkward pause. The people looked
at each other; they did not know what to do next. All the customary
routine of a funeral was disturbed. The next step in the regular
order of funeral exercises was to pass decorously around a coffin,
pause a minute, bend over it with a long last look at the white face
therein; the next, to move out of the room and take places in the
funeral procession. Now that was out of the question; they were
puzzled as to further proceedings.

Doctor Seth Prescott made the first move. He arose, and his wife
after him, with a soft rustle of her silken skirts. They both went up
to Ann Edwards, shook hands,