John Mortonson was dead: his lines in "the tragedy 'Man'" had all
been spoken and he had left the stage.

The body rested in a fine mahogany coffin fitted with a plate of
glass. All arrangements for the funeral had been so well attended to
that had the deceased known he would doubtless have approved. The
face, as it showed under the glass, was not disagreeable to look
upon: it bore a faint smile, and as the death had been painless, had
not been distorted beyond the repairing power of the undertaker. At
two o'clock of the afternoon the friends were to assemble to pay
their last tribute of respect to one who had no further need of
friends and respect. The surviving members of the family came
severally every few minutes to the casket and wept above the placid
features beneath the glass. This did them no good; it did no good to
John Mortonson; but in the presence of death reason and philosophy
are silent.

As the hour of two approached the friends began to arrive and after
offering such consolation to the stricken relatives as the
proprieties of the occasion required, solemnly seated themselves
about the room with an augmented consciousness of their importance in
the scheme funereal. Then the minister came, and in that
overshadowing presence the lesser lights went into eclipse. His
entrance was followed by that of the widow, whose lamentations filled
the room. She approached the casket and after leaning her face
against the cold glass for a moment was gently led to a seat near her
daughter. Mournfully and low the man of God began his eulogy of the
dead, and his doleful voice, mingled with the sobbing which it was