There was a constant stream of people passing in and out of the boarding-house parlor all day.
Bethany was not surprised at the great number who came to do honor to Baxter Trent, nor at the tearful accounts of his helpful ministrations from those he had befriended. But as she arranged the great masses of flowers they brought, she thought sadly, "O, why didn't they send these when he was in such sore need of love and sympathy? Now it's too late to make any difference."
All sorts of people came. A man whose wrists had not yet forgotten the chafing of a convict's shackles, touched one of the lilies that Bethany had placed on the table at the head of the casket.
"He lived white!" the man said, shaking his head mournfully. "I reckon he was ready to go if ever any body was."
They happened to be alone in the room, and Bethany repeated what the nurse had told her of the doctor's triumphant passing.
Late in the afternoon there was a timid knock at the door. Bethany opened it, and saw two little waifs holding each other's cold, red hands. One had a ragged shawl pinned over her head, and the other wore a big, flapping sunbonnet, turned back from her thin, pitiful face. Their teeth were chattering with cold and bashfulness.
"Missus," faltered the larger one, "we couldn't get no wreaves or crosses, but granny said he would like this ''cause it's so bright and gold-lookin'.'"
The dirty little hand held out a stemless, yellow chrysanthemum.
"Come in, dears," said Bethany softly, opening the door wide to the little ragamuffins.