The sun lay over the cemetery. The handsome black coffin went out of
sight. The fifteen musicians began to play once more and Mrs. Sikora,
weeping anew, allowed solicitous arms to help her back into the limousine
and with a sigh she leaned back and closed her eyes and let herself weep
while the music played, while the limousine rolled smoothly along. It was
like a dream, a strange thing imagined or read about somewhere.

* * * * *

The neighbors sniffed indignantly. "Did you hear about Mrs. Sikora?" they
said. These were the same ones who had leaned enviously out of the
Wabansia Avenue windows.

"She spent all her insurance money on a crazy funeral," the neighbors
said, "and did you hear about it? The Juvenile Court is going to take her
children away because she can't support them. The officer was out to see
her yesterday and she's got no money to pay her bills. She spent the whole
money--it was something like $2,000--on the funeral. Huh!"

Mrs. Sikora, weeping, explained to the Juvenile Court officer.

"My man died," she said, "and--and I spent the money for the funeral. It
was not for myself, but for him I spent the money."

It will turn out all right, some day. And in the meantime Mrs. Sikora,
when she is washing clothes for someone, will be able when her back aches
too much to remember the day she rode in the black limousine and the band
played and the air was filled with the smell of flowers.