And now he had gone before she had had a chance to grow up, and Mary-’Gusta felt an unreasonable sense of blame.  But real grief, the dreadful paralyzing realization of loss which an adult feels when a dear one dies, she did not feel.

She was awed and a little frightened, but she did not feel like crying.  Why should she?

“Mary-’Gusta!  Mary-’Gusta!  Where be you?”

It was Mrs. Hobbs calling.  Mary-’Gusta hurriedly untwisted her legs and scrambled from beneath the dust cover of the surrey.  David, whose slumbers were disturbed, rose also, yawned and stretched.

“Here I be, Mrs. Hobbs,” answered the girl.  “I’m a-comin’.”

Mrs. Hobbs was standing in the doorway of the barn.  Mary-’Gusta noticed that she was not, as usual, garbed in gingham, but was arrayed in her best go-to-meeting gown.

“I’m a-comin’,” said the child.

“Comin’, yes.  But where on earth have you been?  I’ve been hunting all over creation for you.  I didn’t suppose you’d be out here, on this day of all others, with—­with that critter,” indicating David, who appeared, blinking sleepily.

“I must say I shouldn’t think you’d be fussin’ along with a cat today,” declared Mrs. Hobbs.

“Yes’m,” said Mary-’Gusta.  David yawned, apparently expressing a bored contempt for housekeepers in general.

“Come right along into the house,” continued Mrs. Hobbs.  “It’s high time you was gettin’ ready for the funeral.”

“Ready?  How?” queried Mary-’Gusta.

“Why, changin’ your clothes, of course.”

“Do folks dress up for funerals?”

“Course they do.  What a question!”

“I didn’t know.  I—­I’ve never had one.”

“Had one?”

“I mean I’ve never been to any.  What do they dress up for?”

“Why—­why, because they do, of course.  Now don’t ask any more questions, but hurry up.  Where are you goin’ now, for mercy sakes?”

“I was goin’ back after Rose and Rosette.  They ought to be dressed up, too, hadn’t they?”

“The idea!  Playin’ dolls today!  I declare I never see such a child!  You’re a reg’lar little—­little heathen.  Would you want anybody playin’ dolls at your own funeral, I’d like to know?”

Mary-’Gusta thought this over.  “I don’t know,” she answered, after reflection.  “I guess I’d just as soon.  Do they have dolls up in Heaven, Mrs. Hobbs?”

“Mercy on us!  I should say not.  Dolls in Heaven!  The idea!”

“Nor cats either?”

“No.  Don’t ask such wicked questions.”

Mary-’Gusta asked no more questions of that kind, but her conviction that Heaven—­Mrs. Hobbs’ Heaven—­was a good place for housekeepers and grown-ups but a poor one for children was strengthened.

They entered the house by the kitchen door and ascended the back stairs to Mary-’Gusta’s room.  The shades in all the rooms were drawn and the house was dark and gloomy.  The child would have asked the reason for this, but at the first hint of a question Mrs. Hobbs bade her hush.