of her father's property, the house adjoining it in the town, besides being a day's journey distant, was turned into a military depot. She had no choice—her mother's tomb must be the green grass of the village burying-place. With added sorrow she had her interred there by torch-light—herself sole mourner. It was a relief to be unwitnessed. The two peasants who had assisted returned to the village—old Pedro and the negro, one of whom still retained his torch, attended Beatrice home—she followed the light mechanically. The agony with which she had watched the body laid in the earth—that fearful shudder which follows the falling of the mould on the coffin—the pressing down of the grass sods, as if the dead were conscious of their weight and soil—all this had subsided into stupor. She felt that strange disbelief in its reality that always succeeds violent grief.
Weak creatures that we are, for the body to overcome the mind as it does! Beatrice slept that night long and soundly—the bitterness of sorrow, affection, and anxiety sank beneath fatigue. The awakening after such sleep is one of the most dreadful moments in life. A consciousness of something terrible is upon even the first sensation—a vague idea of the truth
