invincibility.

That night, in the big four-posted mahogany bed in which he had been
born, surrounded by the massive ugly furniture of his old New England
home, Dr. Webster quietly passed away.


II

Not only the lakeside people, but all of the city with claims to social
importance attended the funeral. Never had there been such an imposing
array of long faces and dark attire. Miss Webster being prostrated, the
companion did the honors. The dwellers on the lake occupied the post of
honor at the head of the room, just beyond the expensive casket. Their
faces were studies. After Miss Williams had exchanged a word with each,
Strowbridge stepped forward and bent to her ear.

"Oh, I say," he whispered, eagerly, "I have to tell some member of this
family how sorry I am for losing my temper and my manners the other day.
It was awfully fresh of me. Poor old boy! Do say that you forgive me."

A smile crept between her red lids.

"He had a good heart," she said. "He would have forgiven you." And then
the long and impressive ceremony began.

All the great company followed the dead autocrat to the cemetery,
regardless of the damaging skies. Miss Williams, as chief mourner, rode
in a hack, alone, directly behind the hearse. During the dreary ride she
labored conscientiously to stifle an unseemly hope. In the other