"I have not had so much happiness, myself, but that I am greedy of it. This day will stand out from all the days of my life. On it you, Joyce Lavillotte, called me, George Dalton, friend!"
CHAPTER XXIV.
NIGHT WATCHERS.
The funeral of William Hapgood was over. Death had dignified him, and few ventured to speak of him as "Bill," just now. Lucy had wept convulsively in her very long and very black veil, and Tilly and Rufie had sniveled on either side of her, after a last shrill quarrel over which should wear the black jacket, and which the cape with a black ribbon bow, that Joyce had provided.
The whole village had attended the obsequies at the pretty new church, and favorably commented thereon. Mrs. Hemphill thought it a "turrible waste" that they did not have the silver name-plate taken off the casket, however, and declared solemnly:
"Them that buries silver's like to dig fur copper 'fore they die theirselves."
But the women were all deeply impressed with Lucy's genteel mourning costume, and felt an added respect for the little creature in her trailing crêpe. Marie and Babette were in and out continually, aiding and suggesting, and Rachel had stayed with Lucy every night.
During one of these she and Babette had been asked to "sit up with the corpse," Gus Peters and Dan being chosen to share their vigil. It had taken much urging to induce Dan to feel it his duty, but at last he had given in with a good grace, and appeared with Gus promptly at the appointed hour. With these people a funeral was often the forerunner of a wedding. It was quite the proper thing for those "keeping company" together to sit out the long night hours beside the dead, and too often a keg of liquor was tapped, over which hilarity reigned to a ghastly degree.
There was no danger of that in this case, though. Neither Gus, nor Dan, was of the drinking set, and Lucy had a horror of the stuff, so would not have it in the house. All was decorum over the body of the man who had been ruined by his own appetite.