adows overhead, and the throbbing, far-off music had worked their
spell upon him, he snuggled close to his mother, wishing himself well
away from the sadness and mystery of the place, but glad that its
solemn splendour honoured the strange change his father had chosen to
undergo.

"Have they brought papa yet?" he whispered.

"Hush!" she answered. "He's come."

For a moment she was in a panic--lest the child's prattle, being
perilously indiscreet, involve them all in humiliating difficulties.
Scandal of this sort would be intolerable to the young Boligand widow.

"Where is he?"

"Don't talk so loud, dear. He's down in front--where all the lights
are."

"Can't we go there?'

"No, no!" she whispered, quickly. "It isn't the way. We must sit
here. Don't talk, dear; it isn't the way."

"I'd like to--kiss him."

"Oh, my!" she exclaimed. "It isn't allowed. We got to sit right here.
That's the way it's always done. Hush, dear! Please don't talk."

With prayer and soulful dirges--employing white robes and many lights
and the voices of children--the body of Senator Boligand was dealt
with, in the vast, dim church, according to the forms prescribed, and
with due regard for the wishes of the young widow. The Senator was an
admirable substitute; Dick Slade's glorious ascension was accomplished.
And the heart of the child was comforted by this beauty: for then he
knew that his father was by some high magic admitted to the place of
which his mother had told him--some place high and blue and ever light
as day. The fear of death passed from him. He was glad, for his
father's sake, that his father had died; and he wished that he, too,
might some day know the glory to which his father had attained.

But when the earthly remains of the late distinguished Senator were
borne down the aisle in solemn procession, the boy had a momentary
return of grief.

"Is that papa in the box?" he whimpered.

His mother put her lips to his ear. "Yes," she gasped. "But don't
talk. It isn't allowed."

The veiled man turned audibly uneasy. "Cuss it!" he fumed.

"Oh, father!" the boy sobbed.

With happy promptitude the veiled man acted. He put a hand over the
boy's mouth. "For God's sake, Millie," he whispered to the woman,
"let's get out of here! We'll be run in."

"Hush, dear!" the woman commanded: for she was much afraid.

After that, the child was quiet.

From the room in the Box Street tenement, meantime, the bo