Could they have ever been a part of this cumberer of the ground, creeping almost as slowly and heavily as a vine along a cold, gray wall. Deborah’s hand went to her heart, where there was an ache of pity for one who had never pitied her. It was Deborah now that was almost girlish of form; she was only now filling out, taking flesh upon her bones and rhythm into her members. And that scrawny chicken-chest of hers was becoming worthy of that so beautiful name for so dear a place; she was gaining a bosom. She did not know how the whimsical sultan Time had shifted his favor to her from his other slaves. She knew only that Josie was in disgrace with beauty and stared after her in wet-eyed pity. Who can feel so sorry for a fallen tyrant as the risen victim of tyranny? A few weeks later Deborah went again to the Shillaber house, sat again on the sofa in the dining-room. The children had all come home. Josie was in the parlor, almost hidden in flowers. She did not rise to receive her guests. They all filed by and looked at her and shook their heads. She did not answer with a nod. Birdaline wept over her, looking older and terrified. But Pamela was wonderfully pretty in black. She sang Josie’s favorite hymn, "Jesus, lover of my soul," with a quartet accompanying her. Then the preacher said a few words and prayed. Mr. Crankshaw was there, and so were his camp-stools. One of them had collapsed, and the bass of the choir had been unable to open his. Some of the young people giggled, as always. But even for them the laughter was but the automatic whir of a released spring, and there was no mirth in the air. Deborah was filled with a cowering awe, as one who sees a storm rush past and is unhurt save by the vision of its wreckage. The girl Pamela had sung here a year or so ago that song to the rose, and had shredded the flower and ruined it and tossed it aside. So time had sung away the rose that had been Josie. Deborah had heard the rose cry out in its agony of dissolution, and now it was fallen from the bush, scentless and dead. But it had left at least other buds to replace it. That was more than Deborah had ever done. The store was closed the day of the funeral, and Deborah went home with her mother. All that her mother could talk about was: "Poor Josie! But did you see Birdaline? My, how poorly she looks! And so kind of scared. And she used to be such a nice-looking girl! My, how she has aged! Poor Josie! But Birdaline! What was she so scared about?" It was the very old triumphing over the old for meeting the same fate. In her own summer Mrs. Larrabee had been a rose and had shriveled on the stem. That night Deborah thanked God that He had not lent her beauty. Its repayment was such ruin. CHAPTER VII