After the decorous exit of the others, the relatives sat stiffly around the room and waited.  They knew there was to be a funeral supper, for the fragrance of sweet cake and tea was strong over all the house.  There had been some little doubt concerning it among the out-of-town relatives:  some had opined that there would be none, on account of the other irregularities of the exercises; some had opined that the usual supper would be provided.  The latter now sniffed and nodded triumphantly at the others—­particularly Amelia Stokes’s childish old mother.  She, half hidden in the frills of a great mourning-bonnet and the folds of a great black shawl, kept repeating, in a sharp little gabble, like a child’s:  “I smell the tea, ’Melia—­I do, I smell it.  Yes, I do—­I told ye so.  I tell ye, I smell the tea.”

Poor Amelia Stokes, who was a pretty, gentle-faced spinster, could not hush her mother, whisper as pleadingly as she might into the sharp old ear in the bonnet-frills.  The old woman was full of the desire for tea, and could scarcely be restrained from following up its fragrant scent at once.

The two Lawson sisters sat side by side, their sharp faces under their black bonnets full of veiled alertness.  Nothing escaped them; they even suspected the truth about Ann’s bonnet and gloves.  Ann still sat with her gloved hands crossed in her lap and her black veil over her strained little face.  She did not move a muscle; but in the midst of all her restrained grief the sight of the large man, the woman, and the three girls in the blue thibets, the black silk mantillas, and the blue bonnets filled her with a practical dismay.  They were the relatives from Westbrook, who had not been bidden to the funeral.  They must have gotten word in some irregular manner, and the woman held her blue-bonneted head with a cant of war, which Ann knew well of old.

For a little while there was silence, except for Paulina Maria’s heavy tramp and the soft shuffle of Belinda Lamb’s cloth shoes out in the kitchen.  They were hurrying to get the supper in readiness.  Another appetizing odor was now stealing over the house, the odor of baking cream-of-tartar biscuits.

Suddenly, with one accord, as if actuated by one mental impulse, the little woman, the large man, and the three girls arose and advanced upon Ann Edwards.  She grasped the arm of her chair hard, as if bracing herself to meet a shock.

The little woman spoke.  Her eyes seemed full of black sparks, her voice shook, red spots flamed out in her cheeks.  “We’ll bid you good-bye now, Cousin Ann,” said she.

“Ain’t you going to stay and have some supper?” asked Ann.  Her manner was at once defiant and conciliatory.