"Oh! Susy," the old forgotten name slipped from the girl's quivering lips. "Oh! Susy, I just believe you saw his live, shining face on an incoming wave! And when the wave went out, it took you both to glory! But, oh! my poor, dear, lonely Davy!" Then the bright head bowed upon the coverlid. "Susy, oh, Susy! I am so glad I held you while you were frightened. If I hadn't I should never have forgiven myself. It was all I could do for Davy, and William Henry, and you!" CHAPTER VIII Susan Jane's funeral cast all other events into the shade. It was the all-important topic of conversation and interest. David alone really grieved for her; the others had suffered too keenly from Susan's tongue and complaints to feel any honest sorrow in her passing. Her giving them the opportunity for so comfortable and gratifying a funeral was, perhaps, the one thing she could have done to cause them to respect her memory. Janet saw poor departed Susan in a belated halo of romance, and Janet was in the mood to be deeply touched. She no longer saw Susan old, helpless, and ugly, full of small meannesses and sour criticism: she saw her only as the young girl, little older than herself, for whom long ago William Henry had always a smile, and a gentle nickname. It was beautiful, to the trouble-touched girl of the dunes, to think that the old lover came back for his sweetheart and paused, before claiming his treasure, to thank poor Davy for his years of patient love and service. "And he understands, I know," Janet murmured, placing some autumn flowers near Susan Jane, "he is glad that dear Davy could have the joy that seemed to us all a burden. That's the way it is when the 'former things have passed away,'"--the girl's tears fell among the flowers,--"such things do not matter then; but here they do! Oh, they matter most of all!" Mrs. Jo G., her boarders gone and her body weary from the summer's strain, gathered her neglected social charms together for Susan Jane's funeral. There would be a reunion of all Quinton that day. There would be a repast worthy the minister's donation. Eliza Jane Smith had offered her services as housekeeper _pro tem_. "An' a mercy, too!" snapped Mrs. Jo G., lapping a plaid shirt waist over her scrawny chest. "Janet's 'bout as useful at such times as a flounder. Lord save us! how I have fell away this season! We've cleared two hundred dollars, an' about all my heft. Maud Grace!" "Yes, Ma!" Maud Grace appeared, bleached out and thin, her eyes red from weeping and her voice shaky. "What in land's name is the matter with you?" Mrs. Jo G. paused to gaze at the sodden face of the girl she had sacrificed much for during the season. "Susan Jane!" faltered Maud. "You ain't mournin' fur her, are you?" "No, ma'am. But I don't want t' go t' her buryin'. I ain't got no appetite fur corpses, they always make me faint."