erstood. It was not a time for words.

As for Flossy, she should not have been numbered among them. She did
not call at all; she sent by Nellis Mitchell a tiny bouquet of lilies of
the valley, lying inside of a cool, broad green lily leaf, and on a slip
of paper twisted in with it was written:

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will
fear no evil." How Ruth blessed her for that word! Verily she felt that
she was walking through the very blackest of the shadows! It reminded
her that she had a friend.

Slowly the hours dragged on. The grand and solemn funeral was planned
and the plans carried out. Mr. Wayne was among the very wealthy of the
city. His father's mansion was shrouded in its appropriate crape, the
rooms and the halls and the rich, dark solemn coffin glittering with its
solid silver screws and handles, were almost hidden in rare and costly
flowers. Ruth, in the deepest of mourning robes, accompanied by her
father, from whose shoulder swept long streamers of crape, sat in the
Erskine carriage and followed directly after the hearse, chief mourner
in the long and solemn train.

In every conceivable way that love could devise and wealth carry out,
were the last tokens of respect paid to the quiet clay that understood
not what was passing around it.

The music was by the quartette choir of the First Church, and was like a
wail of angel voices in its wonderful pathos and tenderness.

The pastor spoke a few words, tenderly, solemnly pointing the mourners
to One who alone could sustain, earnestly urging those who knew nothing
of the love of Christ to take refuge _now_ in his open arms and find
rest there.

But alas, alas! not a single word could he say about the soul that had
gone out from that silent body before them; gone to live forever. Was it
possible for those holding such belief as theirs to have a shadow of
hope that the end of such a life as his had been could be bright?

Not one of those who understood anything about this matter dared for an
instant to hope it. They understood the awful solemn silence of the
minister. There was nothing for that grave but silence. Hope for the
living, and he pointed them earnestly to the source of all hope; but for
the dead, silence.

What an awfully solemn task to conduct such funeral services. The pastor
may not read the comforting words: "Blessed are the dead who die in the
Lord," because before them lies one who did not die in the Lo