the hot tears seeping through their
handkerchiefs.

At eleven o'clock a carriage and a black hearse embossed in Grecian urns
drew up in the rain-swept street. Windows shrieked upward and heads
leaned out. A passing child, scuttling along the bubbly sidewalks, ran
his forefinger along the sweating glass sides of the hearse, and a
buttoned-up, oilskinned driver flecked at him with his whip. Street-cars
grazed close to the carriage-wheels, and once a grocery's delivery
automobile skidded from its course and bumped smartly into the rear.
The horses plunged and backed in their traces.

Mame reached her yellow head far out of the window.

"They're here, Til. I wish you could see the hearse--one that any one
could be proud to ride in! Here, let me help you on with your coat,
dearie. I hope it's warm enough; but, anyway, it's black. Say, if Angie
could only see how genteel everything is! The men are comin' up--here,
lemme go to the door. Good morning, gen'l'men! Step right in."

Miss Angie's undertaker was all that she could have wished--a deep-eyed
young man, with his carefully brushed hair parted to the extreme left
and swept sidewise across his head; and his hand inserted like a
Napoleon's between the second and third buttons of his long, black
broadcloth coat.

"Good morning, Miss Prokes! It's a sad day, ain't it?"

Tears trembled along her lids.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Lux; it's a sad day."

"A sad, sad day," he repeated, stepping farther into the room, with his
two attendants at a respectful distance behind him.

There were no rites. Tillie mumbled a few lines to herself out of a
little Bible with several faded-ribbon bookmarks dangling from between
the pages.

"This was poor Angie's book. I'll keep it for remembrance."

"Poor Angie!" said Mame.

"'In the midst of life we are in death,'" said Mr. Lux. "If you're all
ready now we can start, Miss Prokes. Don't be scared, little missy."

There was a moment of lead-heavy silence; then the two attendants
stepped forward, and Tillie buried her face and ears on Mame's
sympathetic shoulder. And so Angie's little procession followed her.

"I'm all for going along, Mr. Lux; but Tillie's that bent on my going
back to the store for the half-day. I--I hate to let her go out there
alone and all."

"I'm going out in the carriage myself, missy. There ain't a thing a soul
could do for the little girl. I'll see that she ain't wantin' for
nothin'--a Lux funeral leaves no stone un