Welch dimly from the few times that she had attended Sunday-school. He was tall and thin, with a patriarchal white beard. He bowed sombrely to the women, and sat in a corner with Uncle Elliott. He glanced at his watch and beckoned Dorothy and her mother to go down to the parlor, where Loamford’s body lay. The coffin was strewn with wreaths from the Cosmopolitan Bonding Company. There was a silence when Dr. Welch and the family entered. Dr. Welch delivered a short invocation in a deep, dry voice. Then he looked up.
“My good friends,” he said, “we come together under the shadow of the angel of death which has touched our good friend whose spirit is with us, although all that was mortal of him-"
It was an endless speech, Dorothy thought. Dr. Welch spoke eloquently of the meaning of life and the meaning of death and of love and friendship and the lesson to be learned from a life of faith and devotion. What had all this to do with her father? This flowery address, with its interminable metaphors, might apply to anyone. Dr. Welch spoke beautifully, like an actor who had learned well the lines of a gifted author. But what did it mean, applied to her father, a distant little man whom she had known chiefly as some one who left the house early every morning and who came home late every afternoon? It was affecting, to be sure. She heard women sobbing and she saw tired-looking men rub their eyes with the backs of their hands. Her mother seemed to be weeping. She could not be certain. Uncle Elliott sat near the minister, looking exhausted and grave.
She heard Dr. Welch’s voice drop. He was muttering a prayer. There was a scraping of chairs, and the mourners passed to the street, where a long black motorcar was waiting. Dorothy took Uncle Elliott’s proffered
[101]
