She was buried very much as other people have been for hundreds of years gone by.  In anticipation of a death, we Blithedale colonists had sometimes set our fancies at work to arrange a funereal ceremony, which should be the proper symbolic expression of our spiritual faith and eternal hopes; and this we meant to substitute for those customary rites which were moulded originally out of the Gothic gloom, and by long use, like an old velvet pall, have so much more than their first death-smell in them.  But when the occasion came we found it the simplest and truest thing, after all, to content ourselves with the old fashion, taking away what we could, but interpolating no novelties, and particularly avoiding all frippery of flowers and cheerful emblems.  The procession moved from the farmhouse.  Nearest the dead walked an old man in deep mourning, his face mostly concealed in a white handkerchief, and with Priscilla leaning on his arm.  Hollingsworth and myself came next.  We all stood around the narrow niche in the cold earth; all saw the coffin lowered in; all heard the rattle of the crumbly soil upon its lid,—­that final sound, which mortality awakens on the utmost verge of sense, as if in the vain hope of bringing an echo from the spiritual world.

I noticed a stranger,—­a stranger to most of those present, though known to me,—­who, after the coffin had descended, took up a handful of earth and flung it first into the grave.  I had given up Hollingsworth’s arm, and now found myself near this man.

“It was an idle thing—­a foolish thing—­for Zenobia to do,” said he.  “She was the last woman in the world to whom death could have been necessary.  It was too absurd!  I have no patience with her.”

“Why so?” I inquired, smothering my horror at his cold comment, in my eager curiosity to discover some tangible truth as to his relation with Zenobia.  “If any crisis could justify the sad wrong she offered to herself, it was surely that in which she stood.  Everything had failed her; prosperity in the world’s sense, for her opulence was gone,—­the heart’s prosperity, in love.  And there was a secret burden on her, the nature of which is best known to you.  Young as she was, she had tried life fully, had no more to hope, and something, perhaps, to fear.  Had Providence taken her away in its own holy hand, I should have thought it the kindest dispensation that could be awarded to one so wrecked.”

“You mistake the matter completely,” rejoined Westervelt.

“What, then, is your own view of it?” I asked.

“Her mind was active, and various in its powers,” said he.  “Her heart had a manifold adaptation; her constitution an infinite buoyancy, which (had she possessed only a little patience to await the reflux of her troubles) would have borne her upward triumphantly for twenty years to come.  Her beauty would not have waned—­or scarcely so, and surely not beyond the reach of art to restore it—­in