Mrs. Joyce, who was crying, dried her eyes on the corner of her apron. “Wasn't it sad about Smith Roberts's wife! And with all those children! Dear, dear! It's been such a sickly spring!” The undertaker's face assumed an expression of even deeper gloom than was habitual to it. He coughed dryly and decorously behind his hand. “They called in the other undertaker. I won't say I didn't feel it, Mrs. Joyce, for I did. I'd had the family trade, one might say, always. There was her father, his mother, two of her brothers, and the twins. You recollect the two twins, Mrs. Joyce, typhoid--in one day,” with as near an approach to enthusiasm as he ever allowed himself. “Mrs. Poppleton told me over at Lou's that it was about the pleasantest funeral she'd ever been to, and it's durn few she's missed, I'm telling you!” remarked the outcast, hoarsely. He usually slept at the gas-house in the winter on a convenient pile of hot cinders, and was troubled with a bronchial affection. “She said she'd never seen so many flowers. Some of Roberts's folks sent 'em here all the ways from Chicago. Say! that didn't cost--oh no! I just wisht I'd the money. It'd do me for a spell.” “Well, they may have had finer flowers than we got, but the floral offerings weren't much when the twins passed away. I remember thinking then that was a time for display, if one wanted display. Twins, you know--typhoid, too, and in one day!” He coughed dryly again behind his hand. “I wouldn't worry, Mrs. Joyce. Their body didn't compare with our body, and the body's the main thing, after all.” With which professional view of the case he took himself out into the night. The outcast gave way to a burst of hoarse, throaty mirth. “It just makes Chris Berry sick to think there's any other undertakers, but he knows his business; I'll say that for him any time.” He turned aggressively on Joyce. “Did you get me them black gloves? Now, don't give me no fairy tales, for I know durn well from your looks you didn't.” “I'll get them for you the first thing in the morning, Jeffy.” Jeffy brandished his fork angrily in the air. “I never seen such a slip-shod way of doing things. I'd like to know what sort of a funeral it's going to be if I don't get them black gloves. It'll be a failure. Yes, sir, the durndest sort of a failure! All the Chris Berrys in the world can't save it. I declare I don't see why I got to have all this ornery worry. It ain't my funeral!” “Hush, Jeffy!” said Mrs. Joyce. “You mustn't take on so.” “Why don't he get me them gloves?” And he glared fiercely at the meek figure of the little artist. Then suddenly he subsided. “Reach me the pie, Ruthy.” Mrs. Joyce turned nervously to her husband. “Aren't you going to show Mr. Oakley your pictures, Turner?” “Would you care to see them?” with some trepidation. “If you will let me,” with a grave courtesy that was instinctive.