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At last we reached the place. On the street stood the
canvas-covered hearse, known only to the poor.
We climbed flight after flight of narrow dark stairs to the small upper
rooms. In the middle of the floor stood a stained coffin, lined with
stiff, rattling cambric and cheap gauze, resting on uncovered trestles
of wood.
We each took the mother's hand and stood a moment with her, silent. All
hope had gone out of her face. She shed no tears, but as I held her cold
hand I felt a shudder go over her, but she neither spoke nor sobbed.
The driving storm had made us late, and the plain, hard-working people
sat stiffly against the walls. Some one gave us chairs and we sat close
to the mother.
The minister came in, a blunt, hard-looking man, self-sufficient and
formal. A woman said the undertaker brought him. Icier than the pitiless
storm outside, yes, colder than ice were his words. He read a few verses
from the Bible, and warned "the bereaved mother against rebellion at the
divine decrees." He made a prayer and was gone.


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