Slow-paced, with swords reversed and even step, with eyes looking neither to the right nor to the left, following the music of the wailing horns, the muffled tapping of the drums, it came now into the civic center of the town, this solemn procession. At its head walked Saunders, master in the order, his opportunity now at hand; and behind him, in full regalia, came many others, all the leading citizens of this community, the pillars of the church, the props of the business structure of this village, the leaders and formers of its customs and its social order; all these anxious that the appearance of the secret order in public should be in all ways above reproach, even at cost of this quasi-public rehearsal. Joel Tarbush dead was receiving more tribute than ever had Joel Tarbush living. In accordance with ritual or custom, after the actual march to the tomb, the musicians must render that selection which has spoken for so many hearts bowed down in weight of woe; but Jerome Westbrook knew that his men needed practice on Pleyel's Hymn; so they gave it now tentatively, in advance, as they passed through the public square on the way to the hall. To the strained senses of Aurora Lane, still sitting with Anne in the office where they had lingered, the wailing of the music seemed a thing unbearable. She caught her hands to her ears. "Oh, God!" she whispered. "Oh, God! If only they would not." The white, sad-faced young woman at her side took her trembling hand in her own. "It will pass," said she. "Everything passes. You have been brave all these years. I ought to be brave too! even now--after what you've told me." "And I never knew you," said Aurora Lane after a time. "Not many women have ever said much to me." "Nor did I know you," rejoined Anne Oglesby. "You were a stranger to me when I saw you now, right here--Don's mother! We were so excited, Don and I, that I never identified you two, although--yes--I knew--something about--about----What shall I call you--you see, maybe I'll be your daughter yet." "Some call me--Mrs. Lane. Some--Miss Lane. You can't call me 'mother.' For most part I am the village milliner, my dear--nothing more than that. I'm nobody. But generally, I'm 'Aurora Lane.' ... Now you know it all. I'm so sorry for you, my dear girl. You're fine--you're splendid. You're a good girl; and you're so very beautiful. If only you belonged with--with him--with me. It's too bad for you." Anne Oglesby, the more composed of the two, impulsively stroked back the thick ruff of auburn hair from Aurora's face. "You mustn't bother about me," she said. "But I must bother about you! You must give him up. My dear, my dear, it can't be! I'm just learning now how hard that would be for him because it's so hard for me." "He kissed me," said Anne Oglesby simply. "After that it was too late." "Why, what do you mean, my dear?"