She wept for a little while, passionately, but quietly. Even under Emma’s eyes she could not help but weep, thinking of the girls who were exactly the same age, yet whom Fate had treated so differently, and who went so differently robed that day.... Emma watched her for a time with an immobility that might have indicated either sympathy or its suppressed opposite. “Mrs. James said you hadn’t a notion what took her off,” she observed presently. “Nay, I can’t think.” “Seems to me there’s something strange about that. She was always so strong.” “Ay. Strong and sound all through!” “Of course, if it was pneumonia, or one o’ them suchlike quick jobs....” Emma, like Mrs. Tanner, had a score of suggestions to offer, but found them equally rebutted. Death was undeniable, and had a dignity of its own, but the sorrowing mother could not tolerate any hint of preceding weakness on the part of her lost darling. “You’ll be going to t’ burying, likely?” Emma turned the subject at last, tacitly agreeing to leave it that Tibbie had not so much died as “ceased upon the midnight without pain,” and then, as the other nodded, she finished hurriedly—“I thought happen you’d like me to come an’ all.” “To t’ funeral?” There came a sharp pause in the wearisome rubbing which was the outward expression of the fretting brain. Leaning forward with arms outstretched, she turned to stare into Emma’s face. “To t’ funeral, d’ye mean?” she repeated in vague tones. “That’s what I thought.” “Nay... nay, I never... nay, you mustn’t think o’ such a thing!” The colour flashed into Mrs. Clapham’s face, and she stammered helplessly, looking away. It had never occurred to her that Emma might wish to be present, and the very thought of it was abhorrent. Yet what could seem more natural than that they should go together—the two mothers—the two grandmothers?... Nevertheless, it was simply not to be thought of that Emma should stand beside Tibbie’s grave.... “Nay, you’d best bide at home,” she answered her firmly, though very uncomfortably. “It’s a longish way, you’ll think on, and funerals is always a trying business for folks as is getting old.” “It’ll be a deal more trying for you than it will for me,” Emma disputed, though quite gently. “And you’re older than me, come to that.” “Ay, but I’ve _got_ to go, you see!” Mrs. Clapham put up a desperate struggle. “She was my lass. It’s different for you.” “She was Stephen’s wife as well,” Emma broke out sharply, her mouth tightening, and then checked herself equally quickly. “Ay, but I was real fond of your poor Tibbie.”