in the end. The
mother, suddenly awakened, groaned and screamed, so that it was fearful
to hear her. All efforts to restore quiet were in vain. Margaret was
moved, shocked, terrified. She could not keep her own calmness in such
a scene of confusion: but, while her cheeks were covered with tears,
while her voice trembled as she implored silence, she never took off her
glove. In the midst of the tumult, Platt sank back and died. The
renewed cries had the effect of bringing some neighbours from the end of
the lane. While they were there, Margaret could be of no further use.
She promised to send coffins immediately--that stage of pestilence being
now reached when coffins were the first consideration--and then slipped
out from the door into the darkness, and ran till she had turned the
corner of the long lane. She usually considered herself safe abroad,
even in times like these, as she carried no property of value about with
her: but now that she was wearing her precious ring again, she felt too
rich to be walking alone in the dark.

She did not slacken her pace till she approached lights and people; and
then she was glad to stop for breath. She could not resist going first
to Maria, to show her the recovered treasure; and this caused her to
direct her steps through the churchyard. It was there that she came in
view of lights and people; and under the limes it was that she stopped
for breath. The churchyard was now the most frequented spot in the
village. The path by the turnstile was indeed grown over with grass:
but the great gate was almost always open, and the ground near it was
trodden bare by the feet of many mourners. Funeral trains--trains which
daily grew shorter, till each coffin was now followed only by two or by
three--were passing in from early morning, at intervals, till sunset,
and now might be often seen by torchlight far into the night. The
villager passing the churchyard wall might hear, in the night air, the
deep voice of the clergyman announcing the farewell to some brother or
sister, committing "ashes to ashes, and dust to dust." There was no
disturbance now from boys leaping over the graves, or from little
children, eager to renew their noisy play. Such of the young villagers
as remained above ground appeared to be silenced and subdued by the
privation, the dreariness, the neglect, of these awful days: they looked
on from afar, or avoided the spot. Instead of such, the observer of the