is neighbor.

The service was a long one. The village hearse and the line of black
covered wagons waited in front of the Thayer house over an hour.
There had been another fall of snow the night before, and now the
north wind blew it over the country. Outside ghostly spirals of snow
raised from the new drifts heaped along the road-sides like graves,
disappeared over the fields, and moved on the borders of distant
woods, while in-doors the minister held forth, and the choir sang
funeral hymns with a sweet uneven drone of grief and consolation.

When at last the funeral was over and the people came out, they bent
their heads before this wild storm which came from the earth instead
of the sky.

The cemetery was a mile out of the village; when the procession came
driving rapidly home it was nearly sunset, and the thoughts of the
people turned from poor Ephraim to their suppers. It is only for a
minute that death can blur life for the living. Still, when the
evening smoke hung over the roofs the people talked untiringly of
Ephraim and his mother.

As time went on the dark gossip in the village swelled louder. It was
said quite openly that Deborah Thayer had killed her son Ephraim. The
neighbors did not darken her doors. The minister and his wife called
once. The minister offered prayer and spoke formal words of
consolation as if he were reading from invisible notes. His wife sat
by in stiff, scared silence. Deborah nodded in response; she said
very little.

Indeed, Deborah had become very silent. She scarcely spoke to Caleb.
For hours after he had gone to bed the poor bewildered old man could
hear his wife wrestling in prayer with the terrible angel of the Lord
whom she had evoked by the stern magic of grief and remorse. He could
hear her harsh, solemn voice in self-justification and agonized
appeal. After a while he learned to sleep with it still ringing in
his ears, and his heavy breathing kept pace with Deborah's prayer.

Deborah had not the least doubt that she had killed her son Ephraim.

There was some talk of the church's dealing with her, some women
declared that they would not go to meeting if she did; but no
stringent measures were taken, and she went to church every Sunday
all the rest of the winter and during the spring.

It was an afternoon in June when the doctor's wife and Mrs. Ray went
into Deborah Thayer's yard. They paused hesitatingly before the door.

"I think you're the one that ought to tell h