Part 68 (1/2)

Like Niobe all tears, Tillie dabbed at her eyes and dewy cheeks.

”She was always kicking--poor dear!--at having to pay a dime a week to the Mutual Aid; but she'd be glad if she could see--first-cla.s.s undertaking and all--everything paid for.”

”I've kicked more'n once, too, but I'm glad I belong now. Honest, for a dime a week--silver handles and all. Poor Angie! Poor Angie!”

Poor Angie, indeed! who never in all the forty-odd years of her life had been so rich; with her head on a decent satin pillow, and a white carnation at her breast; her black-and-white dotted foulard dress draped skilfully about her; and her feet, that would never more ache, resting upward like a doll's in its box!

”Oh, Gawd, ain't I all alone, though; ain't I, though?”

”Aw, Til!”

”I--I--Oh--”

”Watch out, honey--you're crus.h.i.+ng all the grand white carnations the girls sent! Say, wouldn't Angie be pleased! 'Rest in Peace,' it says.

See, honey! Don't you cry, for it says for her to rest in peace; and there's the beautiful white dove on top and all--a swell white bird.

Don't you cry, honey.”

”I--I won't.”

”Me and George won't forget you. Honest, you never knew any one more sympathizing-like than George; there ain't a funeral that boy misses if he can help it. He's good at pall-bearing, too. If it was Sunday instead of Friday that boy would be right on tap. There, dearie, don't cry.”

Again Mame's tears of real sympathy mingled with her friend's; and they wept in a tight embrace, with the hot tears seeping through their handkerchiefs.

At eleven o'clock a carriage and a black hea.r.s.e embossed in Grecian urns drew up in the rain-swept street. Windows shrieked upward and heads leaned out. A pa.s.sing child, scuttling along the bubbly sidewalks, ran his forefinger along the sweating gla.s.s sides of the hea.r.s.e, and a b.u.t.toned-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 b.u.mped 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 hea.r.s.e--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 b.u.t.tons 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.