Rhoda begged earnestly for permission to stay with her, but Dahlia said: 
“My nights are fevers.  I can’t have arms about me.”

They shook hands when they separated, not kissing.

CHAPTER XLII

Three days passed quietly at the Farm, and each morning Dahlia came down to breakfast, and sat with the family at their meals; pale, with the mournful rim about her eyelids, but a patient figure.  No questions were asked.  The house was guarded from visitors, and on the surface the home was peaceful.  On the Wednesday Squire Blancove was buried, when Master Gammon, who seldom claimed a holiday or specified an enjoyment of which he would desire to partake, asked leave to be spared for a couple of hours, that he might attend the ceremonious interment of one to whom a sort of vagrant human sentiment of clanship had made him look up, as to the chief gentleman of the district, and therefore one having claims on his respect.  A burial had great interest for the old man.

“I’ll be home for dinner; it’ll gi’e me an appetite,” Master Gammon said solemnly, and he marched away in his serious Sunday hat and careful coat, blither than usual.

After his departure, Mrs. Sumfit sat and discoursed on deaths and burials, the certain end of all:  at least, she corrected herself, the deaths were.  The burials were not so certain.  Consequently, we might take the burials, as they were a favour, to be a blessing, except in the event of persons being buried alive.  She tried to make her hearers understand that the idea of this calamity had always seemed intolerable to her, and told of numerous cases which, the coffin having been opened, showed by the convulsed aspect of the corpse, or by spots of blood upon the shroud, that the poor creature had wakened up forlorn, “and not a kick allowed to him, my dears.”

“It happens to women, too, does it not, mother?” said Dahlia.

“They’re most subject to trances, my sweet.  From always imitatin’ they imitates their deaths at last; and, oh!” Mrs. Sumfit was taken with nervous chokings of alarm at the thought.  “Alone—­all dark! and hard wood upon your chest, your elbows, your nose, your toes, and you under heaps o’ gravel!  Not a breath for you, though you snap and catch for one—­worse than a fish on land.”

“It’s over very soon, mother,” said Dahlia.

“The coldness of you young women!  Yes; but it’s the time—­you feeling, trying for air; it’s the horrid ‘Oh, dear me!’ You set your mind on it!”

“I do,” said Dahlia.  “You see coffin-nails instead of stars.  You’d give the world to turn upon one side.  You can’t think.  You can only hate those who put you there.  You see them taking tea, saying prayers, sleeping in bed, putting on bonnets, walking to church, kneading dough, eating—­all at once, like the firing of a gun.  They’re in one world; you’re in another.”