“No! No—he’s not! He—he’s asleep.” “Is he asleep downstairs?” “Yes—and don’t make a noise.” There was silence for a moment, then the men heard the frightened child again: “What’s that noise?” “It’s nothing, I tell you, what are you bothering for?” The noise was the grandmother moaning. She was oblivious of everything, sitting on her chair rocking and moaning. The manager put his hand on her arm and bade her “Sh—sh!!” The old woman opened her eyes and looked at him. She was shocked by this interruption, and seemed to wonder. “What time is it?”—the plaintive thin voice of the child, sinking back unhappily into sleep, asked this last question. “Ten o’clock,” answered the mother more softly. Then she must have bent down and kissed the children. Matthews beckoned to the men to come away. They put on their caps and took up the stretcher. Stepping over the body, they tiptoed out of the house. None of them spoke till they were far from the wakeful children. When Elizabeth came down she found her mother alone on the parlour floor, leaning over the dead man, the tears dropping on him. “We must lay him out,” the wife said. She put on the kettle, then returning knelt at the feet, and began to unfasten the knotted leather laces. The room was clammy and dim with only one candle, so that she had to bend her face almost to the floor. At last she got off the heavy boots and put them away. “You must help me now,” she whispered to the old woman. Together they stripped the man. When they arose, saw him lying in the naïve dignity of death, the women stood arrested in fear and respect. For a few moments they remained still, looking down, the old mother whimpering. Elizabeth felt countermanded. She saw him, how utterly inviolable he lay in himself. She had nothing to do with him. She could not accept it. Stooping, she laid her hand on him, in claim. He was still warm, for the mine was hot where he had died. His mother had his face between her hands, and was murmuring incoherently. The old tears fell in succession as drops from wet leaves; the mother was not weeping, merely her tears flowed. Elizabeth embraced the body of her husband, with cheek and lips. She seemed to be listening, inquiring, trying to get some connection. But she could not. She was driven away. He was impregnable. She rose, went into the kitchen, where she poured warm water into a bowl, brought soap and flannel and a soft towel. “I must wash him,” she said. Then the old mother rose stiffly, and watched Elizabeth as she carefully washed his face, carefully brushing the big blond moustache from his mouth with the flannel. She was afraid with a bottomless fear, so she ministered to him. The old woman, jealous, said: