They brought her specs, her false teeth, her rosary, and her snake-oil. They washed her feet and rubbed them, and helped her to dress. With her mourning veil on she looked like a little black bride. And when she was dressed and ready they brought her the funeral book. “Now, Mammy, look! Mark it down--one hundred funerals. You’ve sung for more buryings than anyone else in the parish.” But Henriette stared at the funeral book; she seemed mad about something, offended. “Don’t meddle so much,” she cackled. “You wait till I come home from Josephine’s funeral.” She set out in the ditch, holding tight to her little black bag and her glasses. The grandchildren, who were to go on in the car, stood and watched her sorrowfully. Once she turned back and waved.... She was so little, so little and thin, so _perverse_! She hobbled along in the ditch. Her funeral shoes felt stiff and heavy, and caught in the Queen Anne’s lace; and whenever an automobile thundered by on the highway, Henriette, terrified, put her hands to her ears.... Once, half fainting, she stopped and clutched at the branch of a cottonwood tree. And a loneliness passed over her, a loneliness and a heartache.... “Josie,” she called, hopelessly, “Josie.... I’m a-coming....” But when she got to the turn of the road where the willows grew, she faltered, distressed and alarmed. She could get no farther down in the ditch. A freshet poured from a hole in the side of the road, and the ditch in front of her was flooded with water. The black water boiled and licked at her feet, treacherous and angry; and Henriette shrank and backed away. For a moment she stood, trembling, uncertain; and she stared at the road above her that stretched away in the sunlight, on past Josephine’s house. Then, tottering and dizzy and sick with fright, she pulled herself up the embankment, and with her face turned toward Josephine’s house, began to hobble along on the highway. “Josie--” she whispered, and a numbness, a darkness took hold of her--“Josie.... I mind as how, after all, my friend, you and me ull quit even....” WITH GLORY AND HONOUR BY ELISABETH COBB CHAPMAN From _Century_ In a cross street of the riant fifties stands the Club Levering, an old brownstone building in a brave new coat of tan plaster, with wrought-iron lamps by its doors and an imposing uniformed figure to bow you out politely, or with the force of a strong arm, in nice accordance to the decorum or lack of it that you preserve within the precincts which he guards. The Club Levering is not a club; it is a cabaret, a dance hall, and a theatre, with a strong attraction for Broadway luminaries. They drop in after the theatre to hear Hal Levering sing his new songs and to watch the swells, strayed from up town East, dance and enjoy themselves. And they love Hal. “He’s a great boy,” they say. “An artist. Some kid. Listen to that now. Boy, how he can put it over!”