in his throat, and he could not bring
himself to feel that Albert's course was right, and felt himself to be
somehow culpable in the case.

A DIVISION IN THE COOLLY

A funeral is a depressing affair under the best circumstances, but a
funeral in a lonely farm-house in March, the roads full of slush, the
ragged gray clouds leaping the sullen hills like eagles, is tragic.

The teams arrived splashed with mud, the women blue with cold under
their scanty cotton-quilt lap robes, their hats set awry by the wind.
They scurried into the house, to sit and shiver in the best room, where
all the chairs that could contrive to stand erect, and all of any sort
that could be borrowed, were crammed in together to seat the women
folks.

The men drove out to the barn, and having blanketed their teams with lap
robes, picked their way through the slush of the yard over to the lee
side of the haystack, where the pale sun occasionally shone.

They spoke of "diseased" Williams, as if Diseased were his Christian
name. They whittled shingles or stalks of straw as they talked.

Sooner or later, after each new arrival, they branched off upon
politics, and the McKinley Bill was handled gingerly. If any one, in his
zeal, raised his voice above a certain pitch, some one said "Hish!" and
the newcomer's voice sank again to that abnormal quiet which falls now
and again on these loud-voiced folk of the wind and open spaces.

The boys hung around the kitchen and smoke-house, playing sly jokes upon
each other in order to provoke that explosion of laughter so thoroughly
enjoyed by those who can laugh noiselessly.

A snort of this sort brought Deacon Williams out to reprimand them,
"Boys, boys, you should have more respect for the dead."

The preacher came. The choir raised a wailing chant for the dead, but
the group by the haystack did not move.

Occasionally they came back, after talking about seeding and the price
of hogs, to the discussion of the dead man's affairs.

"I s'pose his property will go to Emmy and Serry, half and half."

"I expec' so. He always said so, an' John wa'n't a man to whiffle about
every day."

"Well, Emmy won't make no fuss, but if Ike don't git more'n his half,
I'll eat the greaser."

"Who's ex-e_cu_tor?"

"Deacon Williams, I expect."

"Well, the Deacon's a slick one," some one observed, as if that were an
excellent quality in an executor.

"They ain't no love lost between Bill Gray and Harkey, I don