Elsie and I followed on a tricycle.  She had borrowed an old-fashioned scoop bonnet and a black silk apron from one of the neighbours.  I sat beside her, feeling very hot and uncomfortable in the crape veil in which I was pinned.  The others walked behind us, two by two, in a long procession.  We went five times around the circle, while Sim Williams, on the wood-shed roof, tolled a big auction bell, which he had borrowed for the occasion.

[Illustration:  Matches’s funeral.]

When it was all over and the little mound over Matches’s grave had been covered with sod, the children were loath to stop playing funeral.  They had enjoyed it so much.  Somebody said that we ought to march down the street so that people could see how funny I looked in my crape veil; but I could stand it no longer.  When I saw that the band was really moving toward the gate, and that Stuart was about to lift me into the wagon that had carried Matches’s coffin, I shrieked with rage and bit and tore at my veil until I was soon free.

In about a minute it was nothing but a heap of rags and tatters, and Phil and Stuart were looking at it and then at each other with troubled faces.  “It’s Aunt Patricia’s!” one of them gasped.  “And it is all torn to bits!  Oh, Dago, you little mischief, how could you?  Now we’ll catch it!” As if it were my fault.  I don’t know what happened when the veil was taken back.  Luckily I had no share in that part of it, although Miss Patricia seemed to add that to the long list of grievances she had against me, and her manner toward me grew even more severe than before.

The excitement of the funeral seemed to make Phil forget the loss of Matches that day, but he cried next morning when Stuart came down with me on his shoulder, and there was no frisky little pet for him to fondle and feed.  How he could grieve for her is more than I could understand.  I didn’t miss her,—­I was glad she was gone.  Every day Phil put fresh flowers on her grave.  Sometimes it was only a stiff red coxcomb or a little stemless geranium that had escaped the early frost.  Sometimes it was only a handful of bright grasses gone to seed.  The doctor’s neglected garden flaunted few blooms this autumn, but the little fellow, grieving long and sorely, did all he could to show respect to Matches’s memory.

One day, nearly a month later, he went crying into his father’s office, saying that Matches was gone.  Stuart and Sim Williams had dug her up and sold her skeleton to a naturalist in the next block for fifty cents.  He had just heard of it.  I never saw a child so excited.  He was sobbing so hard that he could not breathe except in great choking gasps, and it was some time before his father could quiet him enough to understand what he was talking about.

Oh, but Doctor Tremont was angry!  And yet it did not sound so bad when Stuart had explained it.  He hadn’t thought that he was doing anything dishonest or unkind to Phil.  He only thought what an easy way it would be to make fifty cents.  He didn’t see how it could make any difference to Phil, so long as he never found it out, and Sim had sworn not to tell.  The mound would still be there, and he could go on putting flowers on it just the same.  Sim was the one who had first spoken of it, and Sim had half the money.