Among others was the word “deader,” whose meaning I could not imagine.  Budge shouted:—­

“O Tod; there comes a deader.  See where all them things like rooster’s tails are a-shakin’?—­Well, there’s a deader under them.”

“Dasth funny,” remarked Toddie.

“An’ see all the peoples a-comin’ along,” continued Budge, “They know ‘bout the deader, an’ they’re goin’ to see it fixed.  Here it comes.  Hello, deader!”

“Hay-oh, deader,” echoed Toddie.

What could deader mean?

“Oh, here it is right in front of us,” cried Budge, “and ain’t there lots of people?  An’ two horses to pull the deader—­some deaders has only one.”

My curiosity was too much for my weariness; I went to the front window, and, peering through, saw—­a funeral procession!  In a second I was on the piazza, with my hands on the children’s collars; a second later two small boys were on the floor of the hall, the front door was closed, and two determined hands covered two threatening little mouths.

When the procession had fairly passed the house I released the boys and heard two prolonged howls for my pains.  Then I asked Budge if he wasn’t ashamed to talk that way when a funeral was passing.

“’TWASN’T a funeral,” said he. “‘Twas only a deader, an’ deaders can’t hear nothin’.”

“But the people in the carriages could,” said I.

“Well,” said he, “they was so glad that the other part of the deader had gone to heaven that they didn’t care what I said.  Ev’rybody’s glad when the other parts of deaders go to heaven.  Papa told me to be glad that dear little Phillie was in heaven, an’ I was, but I do want to see him again awful.”

“Wantsh to shee Phillie aden awfoo,” said Toddie, as I kissed Budge and hurried off to the library, unfit just then to administer farther instruction or reproof.  Of one thing I was very certain—­I wished the rain would cease falling, so the children could go out of doors, and I could get a little rest, and freedom from responsibility.  But the skies showed no signs of being emptied, the boys were snarling on the stairway, and I was losing my temper quite rapidly.

Suddenly I bethought me of one of the delights of my own childish days—­the making of scrap-books.  One of Tom’s library drawers held a great many Lady’s Journals.  Of course Helen meant to have them bound, but I could easily repurchase the numbers for her; they would cost two or three dollars; but peace was cheap at that price.  On a high shelf in the playroom I had seen some supplementary volumes of “Mercantile Agency” reports which would in time reach the rag-bag; there was a bottle of mucilage in the library-desk, and the children owned an old pair of scissors.  Within five minutes I had located two happy children on the bath-room floor, taught them to cut out pictures (which operation I quickly found they understood as well as I did)