The three women looked. On the side lawn, where a spreading balsam had been left untrimmed to the ground, stood little Emily Moran and Gussie and Bennet and Tab and Pep. And the four boys had their caps in their hands, and Gussie, having untied her own hood, turned to take off little Emily's. The wind, sweeping sharply round the corner of the house, blew their hair wildly and caught at muffler ends. Mis' Bates and Mis' Moran, with one impulse, ran to the side door, and Mis' Winslow followed.
"Emily," said Mis' Moran, "put on your hood this minute."
"Gussie," said Mis' Bates, "put on your cap this instant second. What you got it off for? And little Emily doing as you do—I'm su'prised at you."
The children consulted briefly, then Pep turned to the two women, by now coming down the path, Mis' Bates with her apron over her head, Mis' Moran in her shawl.
"Please," said Pep, "it's a funeral. An' we thought we'd ought to take our caps off till it gets under."
"A funeral," said Mis' Bates. "Who you burying?"
"It's just a rehearsal funeral," Pep explained; "the real one's going to be Christmas."
By now the two women were restoring hood and stocking cap to the little girls, and it was Mis' Winslow, who had followed, who spoke to Pep.
"Who's dead, Pep?" she asked.
Between the belief of "Who's dead?" and the skepticism of "Who you burying?" the child was swift to distinguish.