At two o'clock the bell of Renton Church began to toll. Her mother sat up in a stiff, self-conscious attitude and opened the Church Service. The bell went on tolling. For Papa. It stopped. Her mother was saying something. "Mary--I can't see with the blind down. Do you think you could read it to me?" * * * * * "'I am the Resurrection and the Life--'" A queer, jarring voice burst out violently in the dark quiet of the room. It carried each sentence with a rush, making itself steady and hard. "'...He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live.... "'I said, I will take heed to my ways: that I offend not with my tongue--'" "Not that one," her mother said. "'O Lord, Thou hast been our refuge; from one generation to another. "'Before the mountains were brought forth, or ever the earth and the world were made--'" (Too fast. Much too fast. You were supposed to be following Mr. Propart; but if you kept up that pace you would have finished the Service before he had got through the Psalm.) "'Lord God most holy--'" "I can't _hear_ you, Mary." "I'm sorry. 'O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death. "'Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts: shut not Thy merciful ears to our prayers: but spare us, Lord most holy, O God most Mighty, O holy and merciful Saviour--'" (Prayers, abject prayers for themselves. None for him. Not one word. They were cowards, afraid for themselves, afraid of death; their funk had made them forget him. It was as if they didn't believe that he was there. And, after all, it was _his_ funeral.) "'Suffer us not, at our last hour--'" The hard voice staggered and dropped, picked itself and continued on a note of defiance. "'...For on pains of death, to fall from Thee....'" (They would have come to the grave now, by the black pointed cypresses. There would be a long pit of yellow clay instead of the green grass and the white curb. Dan and Roddy would be standing by it.) "'Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His mercy to take unto Himself the soul of our dear brother--'" The queer, violent voice stopped. "I can't--I can't." Mamma seemed gratified by her inability to finish the Order for the Burial of the Dead. XII. "You can say _that_, with your poor father lying in this grave--" It was the third evening after the funeral. A minute ago they were at perfect peace, and now the everlasting dispute about religion had begun again. There had been no Prayers since Papa died, because Mamma couldn't trust herself to read them without breaking down. At the same time, it was inconceivable to her that there should be no Prayers. "I should have thought, if you could read the Burial Service--" "I only did it because you asked me to." "Then you might do this because I ask you."