ever call her nice pet names again. Father had had so many of them for her—”sweetheart” and “darling” and “Emily-child” and “dear wee kidlet” and “honey” and “elfkin.” He had a pet name for every mood and she had loved them all. As for Cousin Jimmy, he was nice. Whatever part of him was missing it wasn’t his heart. She felt so grateful to him that after she was safely in her bed again she forced herself to eat one of the lozenges, though it took all her grit to worry it down.
The funeral was held that forenoon. For once the lonesome little house in the hollow was filled. The coffin was taken into the parlour and the Murrays as mourners sat stiffly and decorously all round it, Emily among them, pale and prim in her black dress. She sat between Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Wallace and dared not move a muscle. No other Starr was present. Her father had no near living relatives. The Maywood people came and looked at his dead face with a freedom and insolent curiosity they would never have presumed on in life. Emily hated to have them looking at her father like that. They had no right — they hadn’t been friendly to him while he was alive — they had said harsh things of him — Ellen Greene had sometimes repeated them. Every glance that fell on him hurt Emily; but she sat still and gave no outward sign. Aunt Ruth said afterwards that she had never seen a child so absolutely devoid of all natural feeling.
When the service was over the Murrays rose and marched around the coffin for a dutiful look of farewell. Aunt Elizabeth took Emily’s hand and tried to draw her along with them, but Emily pulled it back and shook her head. She had said her goodbye already. Aunt Elizabeth seemed for a moment to be on the point of insisting; then she grimly swept onward, alone, looking every inch a Murray. No scene must be made at a funeral.
Douglas Starr was to be taken to Charlottetown for burial beside his wife. The Murrays were all going but Emily was not to go. She watched the funeral procession as it wound up the long, grassy hill, through the light grey rain that was beginning to fall. Emily was glad it was raining; many a time she had heard Ellen Greene say that happy was the corpse the rain fell on; and it was easier to see Father go away in that soft, kind, grey mist than through sparkling, laughing sunshine.
“Well, I must say the funeral went off fine,” said Ellen Greene at her shoulder. “Everything’s been done regardless. If your father was looking down from heaven at it, Emily, I’m sure he’d be pleased.”
“He isn’t in heaven,” said Emily.
“Good gracious! Of all the children!” Ellen could say no more.
“He isn’t there yet. He’s only on the way. He said he’d wait around and go slow until I died, too, so that I could catch up with him. I hope I’ll die soon.”
“That’s a wicked, wicked thing to wish,” rebuked Ellen.
When the last buggy had disappeared Emily went back to the sitting-room, got a book out of the bookcase, and buried herself in the wing-chair. The women who were tidying up were glad she was quiet and out of the way.
“It’s well she can read,” said Mrs Hubbard gloomily. “Some little girls couldn’t be so composed — Jennie Hood just screamed and shrieked after they carried her mother out — the Hoods are all such a feeling people.”
Emily was not reading. She was thinking. She knew the Murrays would be back in the afternoon; and she knew her fate would probably be settled then. “We’ll talk the matter over when we come back,” she had heard Uncle Wallace saying that morning after breakfast. Some instinct told her just what “the matter” was; and she would have given one of her pointed ears to hear the discussion with the other. But she knew very well she would be sent out of the way. So she was not surprised when Ellen came to her in the twilight and said:
“You’d better go upstairs, Emily. Your aunts and uncles are coming in here to talk over the business.”
“Can’t I help to get supper?” asked Emily, who thought that if she were going and coming around the kitchen she might catch a word or two.
“No. You’d be more bother than help. March, now.”
Ellen waddled out to the kitchen, without waiting to see if Emily marched. Emily got up reluctantly. How could she sleep tonight if she did not know what was going to happen to her? And she felt quite sure she would not be told till morning, if then.
Her eyes fell on the oblong table in the centre of the room. Its cloth was of generous proportions, falling in heavy folds to the floor. There was a flash of black stockings across the rug, a sudden disturbance of drapery, and then — silence. Emily, on the floor under the table, arranged her legs comfortably and sat triumphant. She would hear what was decided and nobody would be any the wiser.
She had never been told that it was not considered strictly honourable to eavesdrop, no occasion for such instruction ever having arisen in her life with her father; and she considered that it was a bit of pure luck that she had thought of hiding under the table. She could even see dimly through the cloth. Her heart beat so loudly in her excitement that she was afraid they would hear it; there was no other sound save the soft, faraway singing of frogs through the rain, that sounded through the open window.
In they came; down they sat around the room; Emily held her breath; for a few minutes nobody spoke, though Aunt Eva sighed long and heavily. Then Uncle Wallace cleared his throat and said,
“Well, what is to be done with the child?”
Nobody was in a hurry to answer. Emily thought they would never speak. Finally Aunt Eva said with a whine,
“She’s such a difficult child — so odd. I can’t understand her at all.”
“I think,” said Aunt Laura timidly, “that she has what one might call an artistic temperament.”
“She’s a spoiled child,” said Aunt Ruth very decidedly. “There’s work ahead to straighten out her manners, if you ask me.”
(The little listener under the table turned her head and shot a scornful glance at Aunt Ruth through the tablecloth. “I think that your own manners have a slight curve.” Emily did not dare even to murmur the words under her breath, but she shaped them with her mouth; this was a great relief and satisfaction.)
“I agree with you,” said Aunt Eva, “and I for one do not feel equal to the task.”
(Emily understood that this meant Uncle Wallace didn’t mean to take her and she rejoiced thereat.)
“The truth is,” said Uncle Wallace, “Aunt Nancy ought to take her. She has more of this world’s goods than any of us.”
“Aunt Nancy would never dream of taking her and you know it well enough!” said Uncle Oliver. “Besides, she’s entirely too old to have the bringing up of a child — her and that old witch Caroline. Upon my soul, I don’t believe either of them is human. I would like to take Emily — but I feel that I can hardly do it. I’ve a large family to provide for.”
“She’ll not likely live long to bother anyone,” said Aunt Elizabeth crisply. “She’ll probably die of consumption same as her father did.”
(“I won’t — I won’t!” exclaimed Emily — at least she thought it with such vim that it almost seemed that she exclaimed it. She forgot that she had wanted to die soon, so that she could overtake Father. She wanted to live now, just to put the Murrays in the wrong. “I haven’t any intention of dying. I’m going to live — for ages — and be a
