The man stood against her, motioning her back towards the house.  I caught a sentence—­“It’ll be the death of her;” and the woman glanced back over her shoulder towards the window of the sick-room.  She seemed about to reply, but shrugged her shoulders instead and went back into the house, carrying her tray.  The man turned on his heel, walked hurriedly up the garden, and scrambled over its hedge into the wood.  His veil and thick gloves were explained a couple of hours later, when I looked into the garden again and saw him hiving a swarm of bees that he had captured, the first of the season.

That same afternoon, about four o’clock, I observed that every window in the next house stood wide open.  My landlady was out in the garden, “picking in” her week’s washing from the thorn hedge where it had been suspended to dry; and I called her attention to this new freak of our neighbours.

“Ah, then, the poor soul must be nigh to her end,” said she.  “That’s done to give her an easy death.”

The woman died at half-past seven.  And next morning her husband hung a scrap of black crape to each of the bee-hives.

She was buried on Sunday afternoon.  From behind the drawn blinds of my sitting-room window I saw the funeral leave the house and move down the front garden to the high-road—­the heads of the mourners, each with a white handkerchief pressed to its nose, appearing above the wall like the top of a procession in some Assyrian sculpture.  The husband wore a ridiculously tall hat, and a hat-band with long tails.  The whole affair had the appearance of an hysterical outrage on the afternoon sunshine.  At the foot of the garden they struck up a “burying tune,” and passed down the road, shouting it with all their lungs.

I caught up a book and rushed out into the back garden for fresh air.  Even out of doors it was insufferably hot, and soon I flung myself down on the bench within the arbour and set myself to read.  A plank behind me had started, and after a while the edge of it began to gall my shoulders as I leant back.  I tried once or twice to push it into its place, without success, and then, in a moment of irritation, gave it a tug.  It came away in my hand, and something rolled out on the bench before me, and broke in two.

I picked it up.  It was a lump of dough, rudely moulded to the shape of a woman, with a rusty brass-headed nail stuck through the breast.  Around the body was tied a lock of fine light-brown hair—­a woman’s, by its length.

After a careful examination, I untied the lock of hair, put the doll back in its place behind the plank, and returned to the house:  for I had a question or two to put to my landlady.

“Was the dead woman at all like her elder sister?” I asked.  “Was she black-haired, for instance?”

“No,” answered my landlady; “she was shorter and much fairer.  You might almost call her a light-haired woman.”