rch was decked with flags.

So was the Third Reader room. It was hung with flags for The Exhibition.

Hattie in the corner nudged Sadie. Sadie urged Emmy Lou, who, next to
the stout lady, touched her timidly. "We have to get out," said Emmy
Lou, "we've got to say our parts."

"Not now," said the lady, reassuringly, "the programme is at the
cemetery."

Emmy Lou did not understand, and she tried to tell the lady.

"S'h'h," said that person, engaged with the spectacle and the crowd,
"sh-h-"

Abashed, Emmy Lou sat, sh-h-ed.

Hattie arose. It was terrible to rise in church, and at a funeral, and
the church was filled, the aisles were crowded, but Hattie rose. Hattie
was a St. George and A Dragon stood between her and The Exhibition.

She pushed by Sadie, and past Emmy Lou. Hattie was as slim as she was
strenuous, or perhaps she was slim because she was strenuous, but not
even so slim a little girl as Hattie could push by the stout lady, for
she filled the space.

At Hattie's touch she turned. Although she looked good-natured, the
size and ponderance of the lady were intimidating. She stared at Hattie;
people were looking; it was in church; Hattie's face was red.

"You can't get to the family," said the lady, "you couldn't move in the
crowd. Besides I promised to see to you. Now be quiet," she added
crossly, when Hattie would have spoken. She turned away. Hattie crept
back vanquished by this Dragon.

"So suitably dressed," the stout lady was saying to a lady beyond;
"grandchildren, you know."

"She says they are grandchildren," echoed the whispers around.

"Even their little handkerchiefs have black borders," somebody beyond
replied.

Emmy Lou wondered if she was in some dreadful dream. Was she a
grandchild or was she an orphan? Her head swam.

The service began and there fell on the unwilling grandchildren the
submission of awe. The stout lady cried, she also punched Emmy Lou with
her elbow whenever that little person moved, but finally she found
courage to turn her head so she could see Sadie.

Sadie was weeping into her black-bordered handkerchief, nor were they
the tears of histrionic talent. They were real tears. People all about
were looking at her sympathetically. Such grief in a grandchild was very
moving.

It may have been minutes, it seemed to Emmy Lou hours, before there came
a general up-rising. Hattie stood up. So did Sadie and Emmy Lou. Their
skirts no longer stood out jauntily; they were q