and went out of the room. After them
Mrs. Squire Merritt, with Lucina in hand, did likewise; then
everybody else, except the relatives and the minister and his
daughter.

After the decorous exit of the others, the relatives sat stiffly
around the room and waited. They knew there was to be a funeral
supper, for the fragrance of sweet cake and tea was strong over all
the house. There had been some little doubt concerning it among the
out-of-town relatives: some had opined that there would be none, on
account of the other irregularities of the exercises; some had opined
that the usual supper would be provided. The latter now sniffed and
nodded triumphantly at the others--particularly Amelia Stokes's
childish old mother. She, half hidden in the frills of a great
mourning-bonnet and the folds of a great black shawl, kept repeating,
in a sharp little gabble, like a child's: "I smell the tea, 'Melia--I
do, I smell it. Yes, I do--I told ye so. I tell ye, I smell the tea."

Poor Amelia Stokes, who was a pretty, gentle-faced spinster, could
not hush her mother, whisper as pleadingly as she might into the
sharp old ear in the bonnet-frills. The old woman was full of the
desire for tea, and could scarcely be restrained from following up
its fragrant scent at once.

The two Lawson sisters sat side by side, their sharp faces under
their black bonnets full of veiled alertness. Nothing escaped them;
they even suspected the truth about Ann's bonnet and gloves. Ann
still sat with her gloved hands crossed in her lap and her black veil
over her strained little face. She did not move a muscle; but in the
midst of all her restrained grief the sight of the large man, the
woman, and the three girls in the blue thibets, the black silk
mantillas, and the blue bonnets filled her with a practical dismay.
They were the relatives from Westbrook, who had not been bidden to
the funeral. They must have gotten word in some irregular manner, and
the woman held her blue-bonneted head with a cant of war, which Ann
knew well of old.

For a little while there was silence, except for Paulina Maria's
heavy tramp and the soft shuffle of Belinda Lamb's cloth shoes out in
the kitchen. They were hurrying to get the supper in readiness.
Another appetizing odor was now stealing over the house, the odor of
baking cream-of-tartar biscuits.

Suddenly, with one accord, as if actuated by one mental impulse, the
little woman, the large man, and the three girls aros