“I wish we had brought some flowers,” Jane said suddenly, as the car flew past the last houses of the main highway and began to climb the hills into the country backroads. “This is such a benighted little spot we’re going to—they may not have any at all.”
“Doubt it. But there wasn’t time to hunt up flowers if we wanted to get there. Munson’s in all kinds of a hurry to get this thing over. It’s his busy day—as usual, when it happens to be a poor case. We’ll do well if we make it now. Not much use in coming—there’ll be no service. But we can at least see the box go down!”
He spoke grimly. But Jane had caught sight of a rose-bush in a dooryard crowded with white roses, and cried out imperiously:
“Stop one minute, please, Doctor Burns. I’ll buy those roses or steal them. Please!”
The brakes ground, and Jane was out before the car stopped, pulling out a plump little purse as she ran. A countrywoman hurrying to her door to protest angrily at the spectacle of a girl filling her arms with white roses was met with the call: “I’m going to give you a dollar for them—please don’t stop me. It’s for a funeral, and we’re late now!”
“Highway robbery,” commented Burns, as Jane sprang in beside him. “But she’d have sold you her soul for a dollar—and dear at that.”
“Oh, don’t talk about souls, up here,” Jane protested. “If your fine new man at the Stone Church wanted a job worth while he’d leave the smug people in the high-priced pews and come up here to look after barbarians who’ll bury a poor girl without a prayer. Don’t I know, without your telling me, that there’ll be no prayer?—unless you make one?” She looked at him with sudden challenge. “I dare you to!” she said, under her breath.
Burns’ hazel glance, with a kindling fire in it, met hers. “I take the dare,” he answered, without hesitation. “I know the Lord’s Prayer—and the Twenty Third Psalm. I’m not afraid to say them—for Sadie Dunstan.”
The cynicism in Jane’s beautifully cut lips melted unexpectedly into a quiver, and she was silent after that, till the car dashed up the last steep hill. They came out at the top almost in the dooryard of a small, weather-beaten cottage in front of which stood an undertaker’s wagon, two men, and half a dozen women. These people were just about to go into the house, but stood back to let Doctor Burns—whom all of them knew—and Miss Ray—whom one of them knew—go in ahead.
As she went up the steps Jane braced herself for what she must see. Little fair-haired Sadie—come to this so early—so tragically—and nobody to care—nobody to say a prayer—except a red-headed doctor, whose business it was not. At least—she had an armful of white roses. She wanted to take one look at Sadie—and then lay the roses so that they would cover her from the sight of the hard eyes all about her. She would do that—just that. Why not? What better could she do? She drew her breath deep, and set her lips, and walked into the poor little room....