"_I am the Resurrection and the Life._"

A great pulsation passed through the mob of workmen. On all sides strong
men broke down and wept.

The child stared at the platform, then at these faces round her that were
turned upon her.

"Daddy--where's Daddy?" she said trembling, her piteous eyes travelling
up and down the pretty lady beside her.

Laura sat down on the edge of a truck and drew the little shaking
creature to her breast. Such a power of tenderness went out from her, so
soft was the breast, so lulling the scent of the roses pinned into the
lady's belt, that the child was stilled. Every now and then, as she
looked at the men, pressing round her, a passion of fear seemed to run
through her; she shuddered and struggled in Laura's hold. Otherwise she
made not a sound. And the great words swept on.

* * * * *

How the scene penetrated!--leaving great stabbing lines never to be
effaced in the quivering tissues of the girl's nature. Once before she
had heard the English Burial Service. Her father--groaning and fretting
under the penalties of friendship--had taken her, when she was fifteen,
to the funeral of an old Cambridge colleague. She remembered still the
cold cemetery chapel, the gowned mourners, the academic decorum, or the
mild regret amid which the function passed. Then her father's sharp
impatience as they walked home--that reasonable men in a reasonable age
should be asked to sit and listen to Paul's logic, and the absurdities of