ABSTRACT
I had never been to the funeral of someone close to me, and as I stood in the cemetery of the Congregational church in Connecticut where the Pembrokes had their summer home, I was without any feeling of prayer or faith. Martha was gone. The words of the pastor were meaningless to me. Martha was dead. All the world had been mine, and now nothing was mine; and I stood like an empty shell while Martha’s coffin was lowered into the earth.
