masculine mind. "To think of women caring enough about dress to do
such a thing as that!" he said to himself. He glanced at Sylvia, and
she, as a woman, seemed entirely beyond his comprehension.

The whole great house was sweet with flowers. Neighbors had sent the
early spring flowers from their door-yards, and Henry and Sylvia had
bought a magnificent wreath of white roses and carnations and smilax.
They had ordered it from a florist in Alford, and it seemed to them
something stupendous--as if in some way it must please even the dead
woman herself to have her casket so graced.

"When folks know, they won't think we didn't do all we could," Sylvia
whispered to Henry, significantly. He nodded. Both were very busy,
even with assistance from the neighbors, and a woman who worked out
by the day, in preparing the house for the funeral. Everything had to
be swept and cleaned and dusted.

When the hour came, and the people began to gather, the house was
veritably set in order and burnished. Sylvia, in the parlor with the
chief mourners, glanced about, and eyed the smooth lap of her new
black gown with a certain complacency which she could not control.
After the funeral was over, and the distant relatives and neighbors
who had assisted had eaten a cold supper and departed, and she and
Henry were alone in the great house, she said, and he agreed, that
everything had gone off beautifully. "Just as she would have wished
it if she could have been here and ordered it herself," said Sylvia.

They were both hesitating whether to remain in the house that night
or go home. Finally they went home. There was an awe and strangeness
over them; besides, they began to wonder if people might not think it