As for himself, what was passing before him seemed like a shadow scene enacted behind darkened glass. There was nothing real about it, nothing that seemed to appertain in any way to this dead father who had been a comrade and beloved friend. He looked at the casket, at the massed flowers, at the altar, the surplices. All were foreign to the intensely human father he had loved—nothing here seemed to be in harmony with him—not the crawling vibration of the organ, not the resonant, professional droning of the clergy; not these throngs of unseen people behind his back,—not the black garments he wore; not this slender, sombre, drooping thing of crape seated here close beside him, trembling at intervals, with one black-gloved hand gripping his. A sullen hatred for it all began to possess him. All this was interrupting him—actually making it harder than ever for him to visualize his father—driving the beloved phantom out from its familiar environment in his heart into unrecognizable surroundings full of caskets, pallid, heavy-scented flowers, surpliced clergymen whose cadenced phrases were accurately timed; whose every move and gesture showed them to be quite perfect in the "business" of the act. "Hell," he muttered under his breath; and became aware of Stephanie’s white face and startled eyes. "Nothing," he whispered; "only I can’t stand this mummery! I want to get back to the library where I can be with father.... He _isn’t_ in that black and silver thing over there. He isn’t in any orthodox paradise. He’s part of the sunlight out doors—and the spring air.... He’s an immortal part of everything beautiful that ever was. When these people conclude to let him alone, I’ll have a chance with him.... You think I’m crazy, Steve?" Her pale lips formed "No." They remained silent after that until the end, their tense fingers interlocked. Miss Quest’s head remained bowed in the folds of her crape veil. The drive from the cemetery began through the level, rosy rays of a declining sun, and ended in soft spring darkness full of the cheery noises of populous streets. Cleland had dreaded to enter the house as they drew near to it; its prospective emptiness appalled him; but old Meacham had lighted every light all over the house; and it seemed to help, somehow. Miss Quest went with Stephanie to her room, leaving Jim in the library alone. Strange, irrelevant thoughts came to the boy’s mind to assail him, torment him with their futility: he remembered several things which he had forgotten to tell his father—matters of no consequence which now suddenly assumed agonizing importance. There in the solitude of the library, he remembered, among other things, that his father would never read his novel, now. Why had he waited, wishing to have it entirely finished before his father should read this first beloved product of his eager pen? Stephanie found him striding about the library, lips distorted, quivering with swelling grief.