befall him, walking toward the funeral plumes of the firs, under the soft
midsummer flush, westward, where his father lies.




CHAPTER VII

MOTHER AND SON

Rare as epic song is the man who is thorough in what he does. And
happily so; for in life he subjugates us, and he makes us bondsmen to his
ashes. It was in the order of things that the great Mel should be borne
to his final resting-place by a troop of creditors. You have seen (since
the occasion demands a pompous simile) clouds that all day cling about
the sun, and, in seeking to obscure him, are compelled to blaze in his
livery at fall of night they break from him illumined, hang mournfully
above him, and wear his natural glories long after he is gone. Thus,
then, these worthy fellows, faithful to him to the dust, fulfilled Mel's
triumphant passage amongst them, and closed his career.

To regale them when they returned, Mrs. Mel, whose mind was not intent on
greatness, was occupied in spreading meat and wine. Mrs. Fiske assisted
her, as well as she could, seeing that one hand was entirely engaged by
her handkerchief. She had already stumbled, and dropped a glass, which
had brought on her sharp condemnation from her aunt, who bade her sit
down, or go upstairs to have her cry out, and then return to be
serviceable.

'Oh! I can't help it!' sobbed Mrs. Fiske. 'That he should be carried