“Not now,” said the lady, reassuringly, “the programme is at the cemetery.”
Emmy Lou did not understand, and she tried to tell the lady.
“S’h’h,” said that person, engaged with the spectacle and the crowd, “sh-h-”
Abashed, Emmy Lou sat, sh-h-ed.
Hattie arose. It was terrible to rise in church, and at a funeral, and the church was filled, the aisles were crowded, but Hattie rose. Hattie was a St. George and A Dragon stood between her and The Exhibition.
She pushed by Sadie, and past Emmy Lou. Hattie was as slim as she was strenuous, or perhaps she was slim because she was strenuous, but not even so slim a little girl as Hattie could push by the stout lady, for she filled the space.
At Hattie’s touch she turned. Although she looked good-natured, the size and ponderance of the lady were intimidating. She stared at Hattie; people were looking; it was in church; Hattie’s face was red.
“You can’t get to the family,” said the lady, “you couldn’t move in the crowd. Besides I promised to see to you. Now be quiet,” she added crossly, when Hattie would have spoken. She turned away. Hattie crept back vanquished by this Dragon.
“So suitably dressed,” the stout lady was saying to a lady beyond; “grandchildren, you know.”
“She says they are grandchildren,” echoed the whispers around.