“Well, go ahead and good luck to you!” said Billy, “but don’t talk rot about not marrying and not being happy!”

Presently he dozed in his chair, and Susan sat staring wide-eyed before her, but seeing nothing of the dimly lighted room, the old steel-engravings on the walls, the blotched mirror above the empty grate.  Long thoughts went through her mind, a hazy drift of plans and resolutions, a hazy wonder as to what Stephen Bocqueraz was doing to-night—­what Kenneth Saunders was doing.  Perhaps they would some day hear of her as a busy and prosperous boarding-house keeper; perhaps, taking a hard-earned holiday in Europe, twenty years from now, Susan would meet one of them again.

She got up, and went noiselessly into the hall to look at the clock.  Just two.  Susan went into the front room, to say her prayers in the presence of the dead.

The big dim room was filled with flowers, their blossoms dull blots of light in the gloom, their fragrance, and the smell of wet leaves, heavy on the air.  One window was raised an inch or two, a little current of air stirred the curtain.  Candles burned steadily, with a little sucking noise; a clock ticked; there was no other sound.

Susan stood, motionless herself, looking soberly down upon the quiet face of the dead.  Some new dignity had touched the smooth forehead, and the closed eyes, a little inscrutable smile hovered over the sweet, firmly closed mouth.  Susan’s eyes moved from the face to the locked ivory fingers, lying so lightly,—­yet with how terrible a weight!—­upon spotless white satin and lace.  Virginia had put the ivory-bound prayer-book and the lilies-of-the-valley into that quiet clasp, Georgie, holding back her tears, had laid at the coffin’s foot the violets tied with a lavender ribbon that bore the legend, “From the Grandchildren.”

Flowers—­flowers—­flowers everywhere.  And auntie had gone without them for so many years!

“What a funny world it is,” thought Susan, smiling at the still, wise face as if she and her aunt might still share in amusement.  She thought of her own pose, “never gives a thought to her own grief!” everyone said.  She thought of Virginia’s passionate and dramatic protest, “Ma carried this book when she was married, she shall have it now!” and of Mary Lou’s wail, “Oh, that I should live to see the day!” And she remembered Georgie’s care in placing the lettered ribbon where it must be seen by everyone who came in to look for the last time at the dead.

“Are we all actors?  Isn’t anything real?” she wondered.

Yet the grief was real enough, after all.  There was no sham in Mary Lou’s faint, after the funeral, and Virginia, drooping about the desolate house, looked shockingly pinched and thin.  There was a family council in a day or two, and it was at this time that Susan meant to suggest that the boarding-house be carried on between them all.

Alfred and his wife, and Georgie and the doctor came to the house for this talk; Billy had been staying there, and Mr. Ferd Eastman, in answer to a telegram, had come down for the funeral and was still in the city.