Then the room filled with the hurried family drowsily regarding death: Keith’s wife with her child toddling, upheld by a clutch of her nightgown; Aletta and the tiny Jessamine, whom Patty had named; the old nurse whom RoBards had sent off to bed hours ago. Everybody was ashamed of the thought that it was best for Patty to be no more, for it was too hideous a thing to say of a soul. It was a villainous thought even to think that Patty was better dead. When the venerable Doctor Matson was fetched at last, RoBards was glad to have Aletta tell him how she came in and what she saw: The Doctor looked unconvinced, puzzled, then convinced. RoBards feared that Matson would look at him with dismay. In the morning, before a stranger, his passionate deed did not look so tender, so devoted as in the night. But the Doctor avoided any challenge of RoBards’ gaze and contented himself with saying: “She was a beautiful little lady.” And that made RoBards remember how Patty had looked when she read in the paper the terrible word, “was”—a terrible word for beauty, youth, joy, but a beautiful one for pain, weeping, and being afraid. Though new churches were being established in Kensico, with their ex-members asleep about them, RoBards wanted Patty near him and the children in the little yard where the tulip trees had grown high. The funeral was held in the house, and there was a throng. The road was choked with carriages. It was Patty’s last party. Even Mrs. Lasher hobbled over in a new black dress. Her daughter Aletta had seen to her comfort; and the pride she took in being related to the RoBardses was so great that her tears were almost boastful. Since the famous son-in-law, Harry Chalender, Major-General of Volunteers, was still in the East, of course he was present at the obsequies. RoBards watched him with the eyes of a crippled wolf seeing his rival stalwart. The insolent dared even to ask if he might stay the night at the house, and RoBards could not turn him out. But the thought of Chalender added gall to his grief. He was standing by his window late that night, looking out at the tulip trees under whose enlarging branches his family was slowly assembling, when there came a knock at the door. He turned. It was Chalender—coming right in. He wore that wheedling look of his as he said: “I can’t sleep either, Davie. By God, I am afraid to be alone. Do you mind if I sit with you awhile?” He did not wait for permission, but sank down on the old couch. It creaked and almost gave way under him. “Don’t sit there!” RoBards shouted, as if he feared an accident, but really because he could not endure the memory of the time he had seen Chalender there with Patty kneeling by him. It leaped back at him, rejuvenating his forgotten wrath. Again he wanted to hurl himself at Chalender’s throat. And again he did not.