“I must sit where I belong,” said she.

“Maybe she thinks it would look as if she was putting on airs on account of—­” Fanny said to Andrew when Ellen had gone out.

“I guess she’s right,” returned Andrew.

The employes had contributed money for a great floral piece composed of laurel and white roses, in the shape of a pillow.  Mamie Brady, who sat behind Ellen, leaned over, and in a whisper whistled into her ear.

“Ain’t it handsome?” said she.  “Can you see them flowers from the hands?”

Ellen nodded impatiently.  The great green and white decoration was in plain view from her seat, and as she looked at it she wondered if it were a sarcasm or poetic truth beyond the scope of the givers, the pillow of laurel and roses, emblematic of eternal peace, presented by the hard hands of labor to dead capital.

Of course the tragic circumstances of Norman Lloyd’s death increased the curiosity of the public.  Gradually the church became crowded by a slow and solemn pressure.  The aisles were filled.  The air was heavy with the funeral flowers.  The minister spoke at length, descanting upon the character of the deceased, his uprightness and strict integrity in business, avoiding pitfalls of admissions of weaknesses with the expertness of a juggler.  He was always regarded as very apt at funerals, never saying too much and never too little.  The church was very still, the whole audience wrapped in a solemn hush, until the minister began to pray; then there was a general bending of heads and devout screening of faces with hands.  Then all at once a sob from a woman sounded from the rear of the church.  It was hysterical, and had burst from the restraint of the weeper.  People turned about furtively.

“Who was that?” whispered Mamie Brady, after a prolonged stare over her shoulders from under her red frizzle of hair.  “It ain’t any of the mourners.”

Ellen shook her head.

“Do keep still, Mamie Brady,” whispered Abby Atkins.

The sob came again, and this time it was echoed from the pew where sat the members of the dead man’s family.  Mrs. Lloyd began weeping convulsively.  Her state of mind had raised her above natural emotion, and yet her nerves weakly yielded to it when given such an impetus.  She wept like a child, and now and then a low murmur of heart-broken complaint came from her lips, and was heard distinctly over the church.  Other women began to weep.  The minister prayed, and his words of comfort seemed like the air in a discordant medley of sorrow.

Andrew Brewster’s face twitched; he held his hands clutched tightly.  Fanny was weeping, but the old woman at the head of the pew sat immovable.

When the services were over, and the great concourse of people had passed around the casket and viewed the face of the dead, with keen, sidewise observation of the funeral flowers, Mrs. Zelotes pressed out as fast as she was able without seeming to crowd, and caught up with Mrs. Pointdexter, who had sat in the rear of the church.