THE SILVER FOX 161 



and covered with a sheet, some superstition 

 about the drowned forbidding that it should 

 be taken into the house, lest death might 

 strike another there. 



Awaiting inquest, the sheeted figure lay 

 in its hidden awfulness, with the crooked 

 rafters and the sedgy thatch above, and the 

 candles burning at the head and feet in the 

 grey winter air, wan yet ardent, like the 

 flame of faith in the world's cold noonday. 

 Beside the body the widow Quin sat upon 

 the earthen floor, with a black handkerchief 

 tied over her spotless cap frill, and did not 

 cease from the low moaning and weeping of 

 unstanched grief. Sympathizers stood at 

 the door and looked at her, an intense com- 

 prehension of her sufl*ering blending itself 

 with the inevitable fascination of the event, 

 and prayers for the repose of the dead 

 man's soul were offered with a reality in 

 which a sense of the extreme necessity for 

 them was not concealed. 



It was nearly twelve o'clock when Maria 

 Quin came out of the house with a cup of 



