The gaunt old woman was in the rusty black she had kept in readiness for years; she wore gloves and bonnet; the long crêpe veil and the absurd red rose wobbled dejectedly as Peneluna moved about. "Come in, child, and shut the world out." Then, leading the way to an inner room, "Have yer got _both_ services?" "Yes, Peneluna." Then Mary-Clare started back. She was in the presence of the dead. He lay rigid and carefully prepared for burial on the narrow bed. He looked decent, at peace, and with that unearthly dignity that death often offers as its first gift. Peneluna drew two chairs close to the bed; waved Mary-Clare majestically to one and took the other herself. She was going to lay her secrets before the one she had chosen--after that the shut-out world might have its turn. "I've sent word over to the Post Office," Peneluna began, "and they're going to get folks, the doctor and minister and the rest. Before they get here--" Peneluna paused--"before they get here I want that you should act for the old doctor." This was the one thing needed to rouse Mary-Clare. "I'll do my best, Peneluna," she whispered, and clutched the prayer-book. "The ole doctor, he knew 'bout Philander and me. He said"--Peneluna caught her breath--"he said once as how it was women like me that kept men believing. He said I had a right to hold my tongue--he held his'n." Mary-Clare nodded. Not even she could ever estimate the secret load of confessions her beloved foster-father bore and covered with his rare smile. "Mary-Clare, I want yer should read the marriage service over me and him!" Peneluna gravely nodded to her silent dead. "I got this to say: If Philander ain't too far on his journey, I guess he'll look back and understand and then he can go on more cheerful-like and easy. Last night he hadn't more than time to say a few things, but they cleared everything, and if I'm his wife, he can trust me--a wife wouldn't harm a dead husband when she _might_ the man who jilted her." The words came through a hard, dry sob. Mary-Clare felt her eyes fill with hot tears. She looked out through the one open window and felt the warm autumn breeze against her cheek; a bit of sunlight slanted across the room and lay brightly on the quiet man upon the bed. "Read on, Mary-Clare, and then I can speak out." Opening the book with stiff, cold fingers, Mary-Clare read softly, brokenly, the solemn words. At the close Peneluna stood up. "Him and me, Mary-Clare," she said, "'fore God and you is husband and wife." Then she removed the red rose from her bonnet, laid it upon the folded wrinkled hands of the dead man and drew the sheet over him. Just then, outside the window, a bird flew past, peeped in, fluttered away, singing. "Seems like it might be the soul of Philander," Peneluna said--she was crying as the old do, hardly realizing that they are crying. Her tears fell unheeded and Mary-Clare was crying with her, but conscious of every hurting tear.