There was a rustle of skirts and the awkward shuffling of many feet as the congregation formed in line; then it filed slowly up the aisle to where Chris Berry stood, weazened and dry, with a vulture look on his face and a vulture touch to his hands that now and again picked at the flowers which were banked about the coffin. The Emorys, partly out of regard for public sentiment, had attended the funeral, for, as the doctor said, they were the only real friends Griff had in the town. They had known and liked him when the rest of Antioch was dubiously critical of the new-comer, whose ways were not its ways. When the congregation thronged up the aisle, Constance, who had endured the long service, which to her was unspeakably grotesque and horrible, in shocked if silent rebellion slipped her hand into her mother's. “Take me away,” she whispered, brokenly, “or I shall cry out! Take me away!” Mrs. Emory hesitated. It seemed a desertion of a trust to go and leave Griff to these strangers, who had been brought there by morbid curiosity. Constance guessed what was passing in her mind. “Papa will remain if it is necessary.” Mrs. Emory touched the doctor on the shoulder. “We're going home, John; Constance doesn't feel well; but you stay.” When they reached the street the last vestige of Constance's self-control vanished utterly. “Wasn't it awful!” she sobbed, “and his life had only just begun! And to be snuffed out like this, when there was everything to live for!” Mrs. Emory, surprised at the sudden show of feeling, looked into her daughter's face. Constance understood the look. “No, no! He was only a friend! He could never have been more than that. Poor, poor Griff!” “I am glad for your sake, dearie,” said Mrs. Emory, gently. “I wasn't very kind to him at the last, but I couldn't know--I couldn't know,” she moaned. She was not much given to these confidences, even with her mother. Usually she never questioned the wisdom or righteousness of her own acts, and it was not her habit to put them to the test of a less generous judgment. But she was remembering her last meeting with Ryder. It had been the day before his death; he had told her that he loved her, and she had flared up, furious and resentful, with the dull, accusing ache of many days in her heart, and a cruel readiness to make him suffer. She had tried to convince herself afterwards that it was only his vanity that was hurt. Then she thought of Oakley. She had been thinking of him all day, wondering where he was, if he had left Antioch, and not daring to ask. They were going up the path now towards the house, and she turned to her mother again. “What do they say of Mr. Oakley--I mean Mr. Dan Oakley? I don't know why, but I'm more sorry for him than I am for Griff; he has so much to bear!” “I heard your father say he was still here. I suppose he has to remain. He can't choose.”