Uncle Clem had taken out a fat black cigar with a red-white-and-blue band. He bit off the end and alternately thrust it between his lips or felt of its thickness with a fondling thumb and finger. Luke, watching, felt a sudden compassion for the cigar. It looked so harried. "I always say," Aunt Mollie droned on, "a person shows up what he really is at the last--what him and his family stands fur. It's what kind of a funeral you've got that counts--who comes out an' all. An' that was true with Matty. There wa'n't a soul worth namin' that wasn't out to hers." How Aunt Molly could gouge--even amicably! And funerals! What a subject, even in a countryside where a funeral is a social event and the manner of its furniture marks a definite social status! Would they never go? But it seemed at last they would. Incredibly, somehow, they were taking their leave, Aunt Mollie kissing Maw good-by, with the usual remark about "hopin' the things would help some," and about being "glad to spare somethin' from my great plenty." She and Senorita were presently packed into the car and Tom had gone out to goggle at Uncle Clem cranking up, the cold cigar still between his lips. Now they were off--choking and snorting their way out of the wood-yard and down the lane. Aunt Mollie's pink feather streamed into the breeze like a pennon of triumph. * * * Maw was standing by the stove, a queer look in her eyes; so queer that Luke didn't speak at once. He limped over to finger the spilled treasures on the table. "Gee! Lookit, Maw! More o' them prunes we liked so; an' a bag o' early peaches; an' fresh soup meat fur a week--" A queer trembling had seized his mother. She was so white he was frightened. "Did you sense what it meant, Luke--what Aunt Molly told us about Matty Bisbee? We was left out deliberate--that's what it meant. Her an' me that was raised together an' went to school and picnics all our girlhood together! Never could see one 'thout the other when we was growin' up--Jim Bisbee knew that too! But"--her voice wavered miserably--"I didn't get no invite to her funeral. I don't count no more, Lukey. None of us, anywheres.... We're jest them poor Gawd-forsaken Hayneses." She slipped down suddenly into a chair and covered her face, her thin shoulders shaking. Luke went and touched her awkwardly. Times he would have liked to put his arms round Maw--now more than ever; but he didn't dare. "Don't take on, Maw! Don't!" "Who's takin' on?" She lifted a fierce, sallow, tear-wet face. "Hain't no use makin' a fuss. All's left's to work--to work, an' die after a while." "I hate 'em! Uncle Clem an' her, I mean." "They mean kindness--their way." But her tears started afresh. "I hate 'em!" Luke's voice grew shriller. "I'd like--I'd like--Oh, damn 'em!" "Don't swear, boy!" It was Tom who broke in on them. "It's a letter from Rural Free Delivery. He jest dropped it." He came up, grinning, with the missive. The mother's fingers closed on it nervously.