leisure for the indulgence of grief except Aunt Maria, who, after she had helped in the laying-out, simply sat down and bemoaned unceasingly for hours her absence on the fatal morning.  “If I hadn’t been so fixed on polishing my candle-sticks,” she weepingly repeated, “he mit ha’ been alive and well now.”  Not that Aunt Maria had been informed of the precise circumstances of the death; she was not clearly aware that Mr. Baines had died through a piece of neglect.  But, like Mr. Critchlow, she was convinced that there had been only one person in the world truly capable of nursing Mr. Baines.  Beyond the family, no one save Mr. Critchlow and Dr. Harrop knew just how the martyr had finished his career.  Dr. Harrop, having been asked bluntly if an inquest would be necessary, had reflected a moment and had then replied:  “No.”  And he added, “Least said soonest mended—­mark me!” They had marked him.  He was commonsense in breeches.

As for Aunt Maria, she was sent about her snivelling business by Aunt Harriet.  The arrival in the house of this genuine aunt from Axe, of this majestic and enormous widow whom even the imperial Mrs. Baines regarded with a certain awe, set a seal of ultimate solemnity on the whole event.  In Mr. Povey’s bedroom Mrs. Baines fell like a child into Aunt Harriet’s arms and sobbed: 

“If it had been anything else but that elephant!”

Such was Mrs. Baines’s sole weakness from first to last.

Aunt Harriet was an exhaustless fountain of authority upon every detail concerning interments.  And, to a series of questions ending with the word “sister,” and answers ending with the word “sister,” the prodigious travail incident to the funeral was gradually and successfully accomplished.  Dress and the repast exceeded all other matters in complexity and difficulty.  But on the morning of the funeral Aunt Harriet had the satisfaction of beholding her younger sister the centre of a tremendous cocoon of crape, whose slightest pleat was perfect.  Aunt Harriet seemed to welcome her then, like a veteran, formally into the august army of relicts.  As they stood side by side surveying the special table which was being laid in the showroom for the repast, it appeared inconceivable that they had reposed together in Mr. Povey’s limited bed.  They descended from the showroom to the kitchen, where the last delicate dishes were inspected.  The shop was, of course, closed for the day, but Mr. Povey was busy there, and in Aunt Harriet’s all-seeing glance he came next after the dishes.  She rose from the kitchen to speak with him.

“You’ve got your boxes of gloves all ready?” she questioned him.

“Yes, Mrs. Maddack.”

“You’ll not forget to have a measure handy?”

“No, Mrs. Maddack.”

“You’ll find you’ll want more of seven-and-three-quarters and eights than anything.”

“Yes.  I have allowed for that.”

“If you place yourself behind the side-door and put your boxes on the harmonium, you’ll be able to catch every one as they come in.”