looked at Jean’s peaceful face. Her own face was set in hard, tight lines, her teeth were clamped until the muscles of her jaws ached, but no tears came. Jean dead? No—no—no—it couldn’t be true. …
They found her there, dry-eyed, when the undertaker came to prepare Jean for burial. She was calm until the dingy wicker basket, sagging with the weight of its load, was being carried through the door. She was thinking of that day Jean had referred to yesterday—that day in the St. Louis cemetery when the funeral procession passed near them. Jean had said he felt just as though his own body were in the casket. She knew now what he had meant—her own body was there in that straw container.
“Be careful!” she cried as one of the men let the basket strike against the door. A sharp physical pain shot through her body, followed by nausea as the men righted the slipping basket. Then all went dark for her. Without a sound she sank to the floor, unconscious. …
When she awoke she was in bed. Hilda sat near and smiled at her when she opened her eyes.
“Papa says you must keep quiet, absolutely. Mama is seeing after things and Mr. Hunter is taking care of all the arrangements for the funeral—”
The ominous, horrifying word brought a little cry of anguish from Mimi. Hilda’s eyes filled with tears at her ineptness.
“Ask your mother if she’ll try and get some candles. And see if she can get a priest for the funeral. Jean would be happiest if he was buried that way,” begged Mimi.
When Hilda had hurried away to execute her wishes, Mimi tried to get up but found herself too weak. She was glad to sink back into the soft pillows. Yes, Jean would be happiest if he had a Catholic burial. He