Old Mrs. Sark having fulfilled her family’s mournful expectations, Lydia stayed for the funeral, and was so deeply absorbed and satisfied by her position in the Kilroy house that she returned home still impressive, consolatory, and crushed in manner.

She sat beside Martie on the front steps, in the warm March twilight, retailing the events of the last three days, and living again their moments of grief and stress.

“I know I was a consolation to them, Mart—­of course, there’s little enough one can do!  But yesterday morning—­I sat up both nights; I declare I don’t know where the strength comes from—­yesterday morning, before the funeral, I went up to Louis Kilroy—­I never saw a grown man take a thing so hard—­and I said, ’Louis, you must come and have a cup of hot, strong coffee!’ Bessie was there, and I must say she seemed as devoted to Grandma as if she’d been her own daughter, and she came and took my hands, and she said, ’Lydia, I never will forget all you’ve done for us!’ Well,” Lydia went on, with a sad little deprecatory shrug, “I didn’t do much.  But it was somebody there, you know!  Somebody to do the plain little everyday things that must be done, whether death is in the house, or not!” And Lydia sighed in weary content.  “Carrie David says she believes Tom’ll go next—­“she was pursuing mournfully, when Martie interrupted.

“Say, Lyd dear, we’ve been having great times since you were away—­I didn’t have a chance to say a word to you at the funeral—­but the school board, or the city fathers, or some one, has made Pa an offer for the house!”

“What house?” Lydia asked interestedly.

“This one.”  Martie began to chew the fresh sprout of a yellow banksia rose.

“This one!” Lydia’s mouth remained a little open, her eyes were wild.

“Yes; this whole tract.  They’ll fill it in; they want if for the new High School.”

“Well—­” Lydia tossed her head loftily.  “Of course, Pa told them—?”

“Yes, he did tell them, as he always has—­that nothing would persuade him to part with it!”

“Well!” said Lydia, breathing again.

“But he’s been thinking it over, Lyd, and he’s really seriously reconsidering it.  You see the instant Pa dies, the Bank will foreclose, for neither you nor I have a cent, and Len is tied up for years with the Estates—­”

Martie began to speak eagerly and quickly.  But her voice died before Lydia’s look.

“Martie!  How can you!  Speaking of Pa’s death in that callous, cold-blooded way; when poor Ma hasn’t been buried three years—­and now dear old Grandma Sark—­”

Lydia fumbled for a handkerchief, and began to sob.  After a few moments, in which Martie only offered a few timid pats on her shoulder for consolation, she suddenly dried her eyes, and began with bitter clearness: