"This here buryin' of Aunt Joanna have set us up tremendous in the estimation of the neighbours." "I'd like to know who else would ha' done it for a poor old creetur as is no relation; ay--and one as owed a purty long bill to me for milk and butter through ten or twelve years." "Well," said Jabez, "I've allus heard say that a good deed brings its own reward wi' it--and it's a fine proverb. I feels it in my insides." "P'raps it's the gin, Jabez." "No--it's virtue. It's warmer nor gin a long sight. Gin gives a smouldering spark, but a good conscience is a blaze of furze." The farm of the Hockins was small, and Hockin looked after his cattle himself. One maid was kept, but no man in the house. All were wont to retire early to bed; neither Hockin nor his wife had literary tastes, and were not disposed to consume much oil, so as to read at night. During the night, at what time she did not know, Mrs. Hockin awoke with a start, and found that her husband was sitting up in bed listening. There was a moon that night, and no clouds in the sky. The room was full of silver light. Elizabeth Hockin heard a sound of feet in the kitchen, which was immediately under the bedroom of the couple. "There's someone about," she whispered; "go down, Jabez." "I wonder, now, who it be. P'raps its Sally." "It can't be Sally--how can it, when she can't get out o' her room wi'out passin' through ours?" "Run down, Elizabeth, and see." "It's your place to go, Jabez." "But if it was a woman--and me in my night-shirt?" "And, Jabez, if it was a man, a robber--and me in my night-shirt? It 'ud be shameful." "I reckon us had best go down together." "We'll do so--but I hope it's not----" "What?" Mrs. Hockin did not answer. She and her husband crept from bed, and, treading on tiptoe across the room, descended the stair. There was no door at the bottom, but the staircase was boarded up at the side; it opened into the kitchen. They descended very softly and cautiously, holding each other, and when they reached the bottom, peered timorously into the apartment that served many purposes--kitchen, sitting-room, and dining-place. The moonlight poured in through the broad, low window. By it they saw a figure. There could be no mistaking it--it was that of Aunt Joanna, clothed in the tattered sheet that Elizabeth Hockin had allowed for her grave-clothes. The old woman had taken one of the fine linen sheets out of the cupboard in which it had been placed, and had spread it over the long table, and was smoothing it down with her bony hands. The Hockins trembled, not with cold, though it was mid-winter, but with terror. They dared not advance, and they felt powerless to retreat. Then they saw Aunt Joanna go to the cupboard, open it, and return with the silver spoons; she placed all six on the sheet, and with a lean finger counted them.