that when she came upon a flaming golden
maple in October she was content to know it was a maple, and to warm her
soul at its blaze.

There had been something in the Chicago Herald, though--oh, yes; it had
spoken of him as the brilliant young naturalist, Clarence Heyl. He was
to have gone on an expedition with Roosevelt. A sprained ankle, or some
such thing, had prevented. Fanny smiled again, to herself. His mother,
the fussy person who had been responsible for his boyhood reefers and
too-shiny shoes, and his cowardice too, no doubt, had dreamed of seeing
her Clarence a rabbi.

From that point Fanny's thoughts wandered to the brave old man in the
pulpit. She had heard almost nothing of the service. She looked at him
now--at him, and then at his congregation, inattentive and palpably
bored. As always with her, the thing stamped itself on her mind as a
picture. She was forever seeing a situation in terms of its human value.
How small he looked, how frail, against the background of the massive
Ark with its red velvet curtain. And how bravely he glared over his
blue glasses at the two Aarons girls who were whispering and giggling
together, eyes on the newcomer.

So this was what life did to you, was it? Squeezed you dry, and then
cast you aside in your old age, a pulp, a bit of discard. Well, they'd
never catch her that way.

Unchurchly thoughts, these. The little place was very peaceful and
quiet, lulling one like a narcotic. The rabbi's voice had in it that
soothing monotony bred of years in the pulpit. Fanny found her thoughts
straying back to the busy, bright little store on Elm Street, then
forward, to the Haynes-Cooper plant and the fight that was before her.
There settled about her mouth a certain grim line that sat strangely on
so young a face. The service marched on. There came the organ prelude
that announced the mourners' prayer. Then Rabbi Thalmann began to intone
the Kaddish. Fanny rose, prayer book in hand. At that Clarence Heyl
rose too, hurriedly, as one unaccustomed to the service, and stood
with unbowed head, looking at the rabbi interestedly, thoughtfully,
reverently. The two stood alone. Death had been kind to Congregation
Emanu-el this year. The prayer ended. Fanny winked the tears from
her eyes, almost wrathfully. She sat down, and there swept over her a
feeling of finality. It was like the closing of Book One in a volume
made up of three parts.

She said to herself: "Winnebago is ended, and my l