wards, and a stern voice kept repeating stubbornly: “The end, the end! . . .”
The procession turned into the cemetery gate. The melancholy, sobbing bell rang in the chapel, as if in greeting. . . . The musicians continued playing, and with their music mingled the funeral singing.
The coffin entered the cemetery . . . the singing, and the music stopped. . . .
The procession slowly ascended a narrow path between the graves.
Lucy saw the tombstones, the gilt inscriptions, and the crosses, the palings, the flowers, and the lamps, here and there a dry grey wreath,—her veil threw a network of small black lines,—but inwardly she did not understand anything of what was going on.
The funereal odor of cemetery flowers blended with the penetrating aroma of the incense and loam,—it seemed to Lucy that it was the breath of her soul. . . .
The procession stopped.
