The funeral of the faithful and well-beloved Ben was simple and solemn, and the mourners fit though few. The Reverend Rector himself offered up the holy sacrifice of the Mass. Very quietly the simple cortege proceeded to the Catholic burying ground; and when the last shovelful of earth was thrown on the coffin Dora stepped forward and laid upon the mound the flowers such as Ben once joyed to collect and place at the shrine of “that good woman who was the Mother of God.”
They were scarcely outside the graveyard, when the Rector addressed them:
“You have all had too much of tragedy these last days for your tender years. Dora is a free agent; Clarence is simply our guest; they have a right to a holiday. As for you, Will, I give you the day in honor of the efficiency of your strong arm; and you, John, for saving Clarence.”
The long faces shortened; eyes dimmed with tears grew bright. A holiday to the school boys! What trouble, what sorrow can hold its own against a holiday?
“I’ve secured a fine motor-boat for you——”
“I can run a motor all right,” broke in Rieler his face deeply gashed by a smile.
“And I suggest,” continued the Rector, “Pictured Rocks and a ride down the river.”
“Ah-h-h-h!” gurgled Dora.
“Oh-h-h-h!” cried Clarence.
“Say—say,” blurted John, “what about our breakfast? We’ve just been to Communion, you know, all except Clarence, and he hasn’t eaten yet.”