“I see you are ready.  Somebody must bury the dead.  Go.  Will the house be empty?”

“Yes.”

“Good; I can walk through it once more.”

“The dead must be buried, that is certain; but why should it be certain that I must be the one to do it?”

“You think I can go through with it, then?”

“I have set your behavior down to your will.”

“You may be right.  Perhaps mother was always right about me too; she was against me.”

She looked at me with a timidity and apprehension that made my heart bleed.  “I think we might kiss each other now,” she said.

I opened my arms, holding her against my breast so tightly that she drew back, but kissed my cheek gently, and took from her pocket a flacon of salts, which she fastened to my belt by its little chain, and said again, “Go,” but recalling me, said, “One thing more; I will never lose temper with you again.”

The landing-stair was full of people.  I locked the door, and took out the key; the stairs were crowded.  All made way for me with a silent respect.  Aunt Merce, when she saw me, put her hand on an empty chair, beside father, who sat by the coffin.  Those passages in the Bible which contain the beautifully poetic images relating to the going of man to his long home were read, and to my ear they seemed to fall on the coffin in dull strife with its inmate, who mutely contradicted them.  A discourse followed, which was calculated to harrow the feelings to the utmost.  Arthur began to cry so nervously, that some considerate friend took him out, and Aunt Merce wept so violently that she grew faint, and caught hold of me.  I gave her the flacon of salts, which revived her; but I felt as father looked—­stern, and anxious to escape the unprofitable trial.

As the coffin was taken out to the hearse, my heart twisted and palpitated, as if a command had been laid upon it to follow, and not leave her.  But I was imprisoned in the cage of Life—­the Keeper would not let me go; her he had let loose.

We were still obliged to sit an intolerable while, till all present had passed before her for the last time.  When the hearse moved down the street, father, Arthur, and I were called, and assisted in our own chaise, as if we were helpless; the reins were put in father’s hands, and the horse was led behind the hearse.  At last the word was given, and the long procession began to move through the street, which was deserted.  A cat ran out of a house, and scampered across the way; Arthur laughed, and father jumped nervously at the sound of his laugh.