Stuart was in a hurry to show me off to the other fellows, so he caught me up under his arm, and started off to the ball-ground, where most of them were to be found.  Matches tried to follow us, but Sim drove her back, and the last I saw of her she was under the table, whimpering.  It was a soft little complaining cry she had, almost like the chirp of a sleepy bird, and when she made it her mouth drew up into a pitiful little pucker.

I slept in the laundry that night, for it was after dark when we got home, and the boys were not allowed to carry a light up into the attic.  Next day, when Stuart took me back to my room, there lay Matches, stretched out on the floor as dead as a mummy.  The tobacco had poisoned her.  Phil was crying over her as if his heart would break.  He didn’t know what had killed her, and the boys did not see fit to tell.  As for me, I remembered my lesson, never to say any more than I ought to say, and discreetly folded my hands over my mouth whenever the subject was mentioned.

I have no doubt but that I could have eaten as much tobacco as Matches did, and escaped with only a short illness, but the sickly little mossback didn’t have the constitution that we ring-tails have.  She was a poor delicate creature that the least thing affected.  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for her, and yet I was so glad to be rid of her that I capered around for sheer joy.  When I realised that never again would I be kept awake by her snoring, never again would I be disturbed by her disagreeable ways, and that at last I was even with her for spilling me out of my berth on the sleeping-car, I swung on my turning-pole until I was dizzy.  No one knew what a jubilee I had all alone that night in my little room under the eaves.

Little did I dream of the humiliation in store for me.  The next day I found that Matches was to have a funeral after school, and that I—­I, who hated her—­was to take the part of chief mourner.  The boys took off my spangled jacket and dressed me up in some clothes that belonged to Elsie’s big Paris doll.  They left my own little cap on my head, but covered it and me all over with a long crape veil that dragged on the ground behind me and tripped me up in front when I tried to walk.  It was pinned tightly over my face, and I nearly smothered, for it was a hot September afternoon.  I sputtered and gasped under the nasty black thing until I was almost choked.  It was so thick I could scarcely breathe through it, but the more I sputtered the more it pleased the children.  They said I seemed to be really crying and sobbing under my veil, and that I was acting my part of chief mourner beautifully.

All the children of the neighbourhood came to the funeral.  There was a band to lead the procession; a band of three boys, playing on a French harp, a jew’s-harp, and a drum.  Johnny Grey’s Newfoundland dog was hitched to the little wagon that held Matches’s coffin.  Phil drove, sitting up solemnly in his father’s best high silk hat with its band of crape.  It was much too large for his head, and slipped down over his curls until the brim rested on the tips of his ears.  It was serious business for Phil.  His eyes were red and his dirty face streaked with tears.  He had grown to be very fond of Matches.