s manifest in my caparison--that I looked "mos' ezzac'ly like a
real, sure-'nough widder." The boys were impressed into gravity becoming
the occasion, and obeyed, with never a snicker or a grimace, my
instructions as to the conduct of the ceremony.

I walked directly behind the coffin; Mariposa, with the baby on her left
hip, marched next, arm-in-arm with another girl, who carried her baby--a
very young one--over her shoulder, its head wobbling helplessly as she
walked. The rest came after us, two-and-two, through the Old Orchard,
out through the draw-bars at the lower end, and into the graveyard
beyond.

It was a retired, and not an unlovely spot. A brick wall, splashed with
ochre and gray lichens, enclosed six generations of dead Burwells and
their next of kin. A locked gate kept out trespassers. Long streamers of
brier and wild berry bushes, purple and ashy with the mantling sap
drawn upward by the March sunshine, were matted over the older graves; a
spreading "honey-shuck" tree arose near the middle of the badly kept
square, and smaller trees flourished here and there. An apple tree,
flushed with blossoms, leaned over the wall above the place selected for
Musidora's grave.

Barratier struck his perpendicular spade into the black soil in a truly
workmanlike manner, utilizing the foundation of the wall as one side of
the oblong pit. The coffin was lowered into place by means of
tow-strings, provided by thoughtful Mariposa. There was no reason, save
her punctilio of "doin' things jes' like folks," why Barratier, or I,
for that matter, should not have stooped and laid the casket in the
eighteen-inch-deep hole with our bare hands. But lowered it was in
funereal style, and covered with apple blossoms, before the bearers
returned the black earth to the excavation and mounded it into proper
shape. I stood at the head of the grave, my handkerchief at my eyes,
trying with all my might to feel sorry enough to cry. The excitement of
the conventional ceremonies, and the complacent consciousness of being
the principal actor in it, and doing the thing creditably, drew the
sting out of what would have been real grief had the flutter of my
spirits allowed me to think. I believe that, if maturer mourners would
be as frank as I, we should find that my experience was not singular,
nor my reluctant composure unnatural.

Mariposa had her emotions better in hand. She sobbed volubly, wiping
away real tears with the baby's calico slip,