They talked for some time about the difference there must be between the
thoughts of an ancient Briton, skin-clothed, a hunter of the wolf, and
living on the acorns and wild animals of the forest, and the mind of a
little child, reared in the Levels, and nourished and amused between the
farm-yard and the garden. Yet they agreed that there must have been
some things in which two so different thought and felt alike. The sky
was over the heads of both, and the air around them, and the grass
spread under their feet:--both, too, had, no doubt, had relations, by
whom they had been beloved: and there is no saying how many things may
become known alike to all, on entering upon the life after death.
Oliver and Mildred resolved that if ever they should see Pastor Dendel
again, they would ask him what he thought of all this. They agreed that
they would offer to help Roger to seek for other curiosities, to make a
show of; and would give him, for his own, all they could find, if he
would but consent to bury this body again, decently, and beside little
George.

The supper was eatable to-night; and so was the breakfast on the Sunday
morning; and yet Roger scarcely touched anything. Oliver heard him
tossing and muttering during the night, and was sure that he was ill.
He was ill. He would not allow that he was so, however; and dressed
himself again in the fine clothes he had taken from the chest. It was
plain, from his shaking hand and his heavy eye, that he was too weak,
and his head aching too much for him to be able to do any work;
therefore Ailwin helped Oliver to finish the grave.

Roger inquired how the work proceeded: and it appeared that he meant to
attend the funeral, when he found that it was to be in the afternoon.
His companions did not believe him able: and he himself doubted it in
his heart, resolved as he was to refuse to believe himself very ill, as
long as he could keep off the thought. He found an excuse, however, for
lying on the grass while the others were engaged at the grave. Oliver
hinted to him, very gently, that Mildred and he had rather see him
dressed in the shabbiest clothes of his own, than following their little
brother to his grave in fine things which they could not but consider
stolen. Roger was, in reality, only ashamed; but he pretended to be
angry; and made use of the pretence to stay behind. While he lay, ill
and miserable, remembering that little George alone had seemed to love
him, an