The graveyard was a mile outside the village—­a sandy plain where a few stunted pines transplanted from the woods near it struggled to keep alive.  As we turned from the street into the lane which led to it, and rode up a little hill where the sand was so deep that it muffled the wheels and feet of the horses, the whole round of the gray sky was visible.  It hung low over us.  I wished it to drop and blot out the vague nothings under it.  We left the carriage at the palings and walked up the narrow path, among the mounds, where every stone was marked “Morgeson.”  Some so old that they were stained with blotches of yellow moss, slanting backward and forward, in protest against the folly of indicating what was no longer beneath them.  The mounds were covered with mats of scanty, tangled grass, with here and there a rank spot of green.  I was tracing the shape of one of those green patches when I felt father’s arm tremble.  I shut my eyes, but could not close my ears to the sound of the spadeful of sand which fell on the coffin.

It was over.  We must leave her to the creatures Veronica had seen.  I looked upward, to discern the shadowy reflection behind the gray haze of cloud, where she might have paused a moment on her eternal journey to the eternal world of souls.

It was the custom, and father took his hat off to thank his friends for their sympathy and attention.  His lips moved, but no words were audible.

The procession moved down the path again.  Arthur’s hand was in mine; he stamped his feet firmly on the sand, as if to break the oppressive silence which no one seemed disposed to disturb.  The same ceremonies were performed in starting us homeward, by the same person, who let go the reins, and lifted his hat as we passed, as the final token of attention and respect.

The windows were open; a wind was blowing through the house, the furniture was set in order, the doors were thrown back, but not a soul was there when we went in.  The duties of friendship and tradition had been fulfilled; the neighbors had gone home to their avocations.  For the public, the tragedy was over; all speculation on the degree of our grief, or our indifference, was settled.  We could take off our mourning garments and our mourning countenance, now that we were alone; or we could give way to that anguish we are afraid and ashamed to show, except before the One above human emotion.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Temperance stayed to the house-cleaning.  It was lucky, she could not help saying, as house-cleaning must always be after a funeral, that it should have happened at the regular cleaning-time.  She went back to her own house as soon as it was over.  Father drove to Milford as usual; Arthur resumed his school, and Aunt Merce, who had at first busied herself in looking over her wardrobe, and selecting from it what she thought could be dyed, folded it away.  She passed hours in mother’s room, from which