Well, there was that Rosalie in the pew beside Hilda, and while she waited for her father to begin (ever and ever so long he was upon his knees at the altar, his back to them) while she waited she turned back the leaves of her prayer book from the burial service and noticed with a curious interest the correctness of the order in which the special services came. There, in its order, was the complete record of life. Rosalie must have had an imagination and she must have had budding then what was a strong characteristic of her afterwards,--a very orderly mind. She appreciated the correctness of the order of the services and she turned them over one by one and could imagine it, like a story: that record of a life. First the service of Baptism; you were born and baptised. Then the Catechism; you were a child and learnt your catechism. Then the Order of Confirmation; you were getting older and were confirmed. Then the marriage service; you were married. Then the Order for the Visitation of the Sick: you were growing old and you were ill. Then the Burial Service; you died. Born, brought up, growing up, married, ill, dead. Yes, it was like a story. Rosalie turned on. The next service was called The Churching of Women. It was new to Rosalie. She had never noticed it before. “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of His goodness to give you safe deliverance...” Rosalie had heard the word deliverance used in the Bible in connection with death. She thought this must be a service special to the burial of a woman--of Anna. She read the small print. “The woman at the usual time after her delivery shall come into the church decently apparelled....” Decently apparelled? Anna was in one of those nightgowns in which Rosalie so often had seen her praying. “... and there shall kneel down in some convenient place.” Kneel down? How could she?... There came upon the book while Rosalie pondered it the long, black-gloved forefinger of Hilda. It turned back the thin leaves to the burial service and then pushed over one or two of the thin leaves and indicated certain places. Then Hilda’s new black hat was touching her own new black hat, and Hilda whispered, “Where it says ‘brother’ and ‘his’ father will say ‘sister’ and ‘her.’ It’s written for men, do you see?” Always for men! Even in the prayer book! And it was because of men that Anna had drowned herself in the pond. Over and over again Rosalie had thought of that, wondering upon it, shuddering at the thought of men because of it. How she came to know that Anna had not died as ordinary people die, but had drowned herself in the pond she never could remember. No one told her. Rosalie was twelve then but the others were all so much older, and were so accustomed to treating Rosalie as so very much younger, that the pain and mystery of poor Anna’s death was outstandingly of the class of things that were kept within the established wheel of the rectory by “Not in front of Rosalie,” or “Hush, here’s Rosalie.”