funeral music. There was a beat of muffled drums. The Roman Catholic church near by was draped for a soldier's funeral.
Mrs. Kent stood still while the slow procession passed. The colours of the flag shone bright against the sombre crepe. She watched the faces of the mourners, comic in their self-importance, or tear-stained with real grief. Then she went on.
The rude music turned her walk into a march of triumph. She had found at last the way of the wandering of her feet. These grimy alleys had led her to a goal. Grief had solved her problem in making her aware of the encompassing grief. Life with sorrow in it was a better thing than life without sorrow could be.
"After knowing joy like that and pain like that, one has a right to share every trouble," she whispered.
She looked at the passing faces and smiled. A larger life was hers. This was her people. Her life was one with theirs, the sin of it, the suffering of it. The music of their funerals was sounding
