A wild-looking little black cat jumped on his knee as he spoke. He patted it as one pats a child to make it go to sleep: he seemed to me patting down the sod upon a grave--patting it lovingly, with an inward lullaby. “Here is one of Mara’s kittens!” he said to his wife: “will you give it something and put it out? she may want it!” The woman took it from him gently, gave it a little piece of bread, and went out with it, closing the door behind her. “How then am I to make use of your hospitality?” I asked. “By accepting it to the full,” he answered. “I do not understand.” “In this house no one wakes of himself.” “Why?” “Because no one anywhere ever wakes of himself. You can wake yourself no more than you can make yourself.” “Then perhaps you or Mrs. Raven would kindly call me!” I said, still nowise understanding, but feeling afresh that vague foreboding. “We cannot.” “How dare I then go to sleep?” I cried. “If you would have the rest of this house, you must not trouble yourself about waking. You must go to sleep heartily, altogether and outright.” My soul sank within me. The sexton sat looking me in the face. His eyes seemed to say, “Will you not trust me?” I returned his gaze, and answered, “I will.” “Then come,” he said; “I will show you your couch.” As we rose, the woman came in. She took up the candle, turned to the inner door, and led the way. I went close behind her, and the sexton followed. CHAPTER VII. THE CEMETERY The air as of an ice-house met me crossing the threshold. The door fell-to behind us. The sexton said something to his wife that made her turn toward us.--What a change had passed upon her! It was as if the splendour of her eyes had grown too much for them to hold, and, sinking into her countenance, made it flash with a loveliness like that of Beatrice in the white rose of the redeemed. Life itself, life eternal, immortal, streamed from it, an unbroken lightning. Even her hands shone with a white radiance, every “pearl-shell helmet” gleaming like a moonstone. Her beauty was overpowering; I was glad when she turned it from me. But the light of the candle reached such a little way, that at first I could see nothing of the place. Presently, however, it fell on something that glimmered, a little raised from the floor. Was it a bed? Could live thing sleep in such a mortal cold? Then surely it was no wonder it should not wake of itself! Beyond that appeared a fainter shine; and then I thought I descried uncertain gleams on every side. A few paces brought us to the first; it was a human form under a sheet, straight and still--whether of man or woman I could not tell, for the light seemed to avoid the face as we passed.