From time to time the door opened to admit some tardy person.
Then the May sunlight without flooded the dim, long hall with a sudden radiance, even to the arched recess in the rear, where the coffin was placed.
The late-comers sank into the crowd of black-coated men, who filled the hall to the broad stairs.
Most of these were plainly dressed, with thick, grizzled beards and lined faces: they were old hands from the Bridge Works on the West Side, where they had worked many years for Powers Jackson.
In the parlors at the left of the hall there were more women than men, and more fashionable clothes than in the hall.
But the faces were scarcely less rugged and lined; for these friends of the old man who lay in the coffin were mostly life-worn and gnarled, like himself.
Their luxuries had not sufficed to hide the scars of the battles they had waged with fortune.
