“Found dead in ’s bed, Sat’day morning,” Master Gammon added, and, warmed upon the subject, went on:  “He’s that stiff, folks say, that stiff he is, he’ll have to get into a rounded coffin:  he’s just like half a hoop.  He was all of a heap, like.  Had a fight with ‘s bolster, and got th’ wust of it.  But, be ’t the seizure, or be ’t gout in ’s belly, he’s gone clean dead.  And he wunt buy th’ Farm, nether.  Shutters is all shut up at the Hall.  He’ll go burying about Wednesday.  Men that drinks don’t keep.”

Rhoda struck at her brain to think in what way this death could work and show like a punishment of the heavens upon that one wrong-doer; but it was not manifest as a flame of wrath, and she laid herself open to the peace of the fields and the hedgeways stepping by.  The farm-house came in sight, and friendly old Adam and Eve turning from the moon.  She heard the sound of water.  Every sign of peace was around the farm.  The cows had been milked long since; the geese were quiet.  There was nothing but the white board above the garden-gate to speak of the history lying in her heart.

They found the farmer sitting alone, shading his forehead.  Rhoda kissed his cheeks and whispered for tidings of Dahlia.

“Go up to her,” the farmer said.

Rhoda grew very chill.  She went upstairs with apprehensive feet, and recognizing Mrs. Sumfit outside the door of Dahlia’s room, embraced her, and heard her say that Dahlia had turned the key, and had been crying from mornings to nights.  “It can’t last,” Mrs. Sumfit sobbed:  “lonesome hysterics, they’s death to come.  She’s falling into the trance.  I’ll go, for the sight o’ me shocks her.”

Rhoda knocked, waited patiently till her persistent repetition of her name gained her admission.  She beheld her sister indeed, but not the broken Dahlia from whom she had parted.  Dahlia was hard to her caress, and crying, “Has he come?” stood at bay, white-eyed, and looking like a thing strung with wires.

“No, dearest; he will not trouble you.  Have no fear.”

“Are you full of deceit?” said Dahlia, stamping her foot.

“I hope not, my sister.”

Dahlia let fall a long quivering breath.  She went to her bed, upon which her mother’s Bible was lying, and taking it in her two hands, held it under Rhoda’s lips.

“Swear upon that?”

“What am I to swear to, dearest?”

“Swear that he is not in the house.”

“He is not, my own sister; believe me.  It is no deceit.  He is not.  He will not trouble you.  See; I kiss the Book, and swear to you, my beloved!  I speak truth.  Come to me, dear.”  Rhoda put her arms up entreatingly, but Dahlia stepped back.

“You are not deceitful?  You are not cold?  You are not inhuman?  Inhuman!  You are not?  You are not?  Oh, my God!  Look at her!”

The toneless voice was as bitter for Rhoda to hear as the accusations.  She replied, with a poor smile:  “I am only not deceitful.  Come, and see.  You will not be disturbed.”