"What, Solomon?"
"Yes. My paw. He died a little while ago. We're goin' to have a funerl."
"I'm sorry," said Derek. "The doctor told me yesterday he might get better."
"Well, he ain't. He couldn't be worse. He's as dead as the blackbird Mr. Chard nailed to his barndoor. We're goin' to have a funerl with a minister. Paw's other wife's comin' too."
"Good Lord! Has he got another wife?"
Beulah grinned. "He had her before he had Maw, but she was no good so he fired her. But she's comin' to his funerl. . . . Miss Jerrold sent a lot of things. Phœbe, kin I have a point of milk?"
"Buttermilk?"
"No. Real milk."
"Where's your money?"
"I'll pay you after the funerl, Phœbe."
"Give her the milk," said Vale, curtly. He was shocked by the child's callousness. "Aren't you sorry he is dead, Beulah?"
"Yes. He was a great chief. Mrs. Chard she's makin' a purty thing out of flowers for his grave. Gates of Jar, she calls it. Are you comin' to the funerl?" . . .
All the next day there was a feeling of excitement in the air. Phœbe spent most of the morning peering through the picket fence that separated the yards. She reported stirring events. Indians were arriving from all directions. A large table was being laid for a feast under the apple trees. She had squeezed through a gap in the fence, and seen with her own eyes The Gates of Jar . . . It was unaccountably lovely. She had not seen Solomon himself, but one of the Chard boys had told her that he was all got up in war paint and feathers. Phœbe scarcely knew whether to believe this
