Eppie wept loudly when it was dead; but Gavan had no tears. She suspected him of a suffering all the keener and that his self-control did not allow him the relief of emotion before her. She hoped, at least, to be near him in the formalities of grief, and proposed that they should bury the lemur together, suggesting a spot among birch-trees and heather where some rabbits of her own were interred. When she spoke of the ceremony, Gavan hesitated; to repulse her, or to have her with him in the task of burial, were perhaps equally painful to him. “If you don’t mind, I think I would rather do it by myself,” he said in his gentle, tentative way. Eppie felt her lack of delicacy unconsciously rebuked. She recognized that, in spite of her most genuine grief, the burial of the lemur had held out to her some of the satisfactory possibilities of a solemn game. She had been gross in imagining that Gavan could share in such divided instincts. Her tears fell for her own just abasement, as well as for the lemur, while she watched Gavan walking away into the woods--evidently avoiding the proximity of the rabbits--with the small white box under his arm. The day after this was Sunday, a day of doom to Eppie. It meant that morning recitation of hymn and collect in the chintz and gilt boudoir and then the bleak and barren hours in church. Even Aunt Barbara’s mildness could, on this subject, become inflexible, and Aunt Rachel’s aspect reminded Eppie of the stern angel with the flaming sword driving frail, reluctant humanity into the stony wilderness. A flaming sword was needed. Every Sunday saw the renewal of her protest, and there were occasions on which her submission was only extorted after disgraceful scenes. Eppie herself, on looking back, had to own that she had indeed disgraced herself when she had taken refuge under her bed and lain there, her hat all bent, her fresh dress all crumpled, fiercely shrieking her refusal; and disgrace had been deeper on another day when she had actually struck out at her aunts while they mutely and in pale indignation haled her toward the door. It was dreadful to remember that Aunt Barbara had burst into tears. Eppie could not forgive herself for that. She had a stoic satisfaction in the memory of the smart whipping that she had borne without a whimper, and perhaps did not altogether repent the heavier slap she had dealt Aunt Rachel; but the thought of Aunt Barbara’s tears--they had continued so piteously to flow while Aunt Rachel whipped her--quelled physical revolt forever. She was older now, too, and protest only took the form of dejection and a hostile gloom.