“Now be quiet, Ellen,” said the elder roughly but not unkindly, as she helped her up, and stuffing the black-bordered handkerchief into her pocket, took out the everyday one which she kept for use.  “There, wipe your eyes, and be a stout gal.  Don’t let all the company see you crying.”

The last injunction evidently impressed Ellen, for she stopped at once.  Her sister had wiped the grit and the little smear of blood off her chin, and stood in the doorway holding her hand while one by one the other carriages drew up and the occupants alighted.  Not a word was spoken till they had all assembled, then the young woman said:  “Please come in and have a cup of tea,” and turning on her heel led the way to the dining-room.

“Joanna,” said little Ellen in a loud whisper, “may I take off my hat?”

“No, that you mayn’t.”

“But the elastic’s so tight—­it’s cutting my chin.  Why mayn’t I?”

“You can’t till the funeral’s over.”

“It is over.  They’ve put father in the ground.”

“It isn’t over till we’ve had tea, and you keep your hat on till it’s over.”

For answer Ellen tore off her pork-pie hat and threw it on the floor.  Immediately Joanna had boxed her unprotected ears, and the head of the procession was involved in an ignominious scuffle.  “You pick up that hat and put it on,” said Joanna, “or you shan’t have any nice tea.”  “You’re a beast!  You’re a brute,” cried Ellen, weeping loudly.  Behind them stood two rows of respectable marsh-dwellers, gazing solemnly ahead as if the funeral service were still in progress.  In their hearts they were thinking that it was just like Joanna Godden to have a terrification like this when folk were expected to be serious.  In the end Joanna picked up Ellen’s hat, crammed it down ruthlessly on her head, hind part before, and heaving her up under her arm carried her into the dining-room.  The rest of the company followed, and were ushered into their places to the accompaniment of Ellen’s shrieks, which they pretended not to hear.

“Mr. Pratt, will you take the end of the table?” said Joanna to the scared little clergyman, who would almost have preferred to sit under it rather than receive the honour which Miss Godden’s respect for his cloth dictated.  “Mr. Huxtable, will you sit by me?” Having thus settled her aristocracy she turned to her equals and allotted places to Vine of Birdskitchen, Furnese of Misleham, Southland of Yokes Court, and their wives.  “Arthur Alce, you take my left,” and a tall young man with red hair, red whiskers, and a face covered with freckles and tan, came sidling to her elbow.