"Well, Mrs. Tom, I’m come back," he cried, pulling open the little door. To him, the room, always dark, seemed full of soberly clad women and, between them, he made out masses of black material which, overflowing chairs and tables, lay in discreet heaps on the clean blue floor. The women glanced up with conventional murmurs and he perceived that, for the nonce, it was they who were at home there and not he. "What is there for me to do?" Isolda put down the child’s frock on which she was at work. "I think you better go into Stowe and see Mr. Henwood and tell’n to come out and measure ’er for ’er coffin." Leadville viewed the task set him with disfavour. "I can’t abide that job." "It bain’t a bit of good for ’ee to talk like that, my dear," said Mrs. Tom, as to a fractious child, "you know it’s got to be done. As well ’av it done first as last." "I know that." Traffic in the gruesome ceremonial of death was repugnant to him and he would have liked to take a broom and sweep these women and their blacks out of Wastralls, to clear the place of them and have it once more sweet and clean. "Still ’tis ’ard lines on a poor feller." "Of course it be but, there, it can’t be ’elped. I don’t want to bother you more’n I can ’elp; but still there’s things as must be seen to." He stood before her, balancing first on one foot, then on the other. "Well?" he said. "There’s the funeral and what about the food?" "Tedn’t a bit of good for ’ee to ask me. You must do zactly as you like. You knaw best, better than I do." "I thought," she pursued, bent on getting his assent to the arrangements she considered should be made, "about ’avin’ a ’am and a couple of chicken and a piece of beef and then I thought we’d better ’ave a couple of tarts and white cake and yeller cake: and tea. That will be enough." "Iss," he said, longing to get away, "well, you know what to do." "And you’ll ’av to go and see doctor to get a certificate before you go down to Mr. ’Enwood. As ’e was ’ere yesterday, ’e may not want an inquest—still you never know." "Well, I’ll see’n." "What day be yer thinkin’ to ’av the funeral?" Leadville was anxious to have it as soon as possible, but knew that this desire was not one to which he could give utterance. "I can’t abear to think of ’t," he said, conscious of his audience. "I feel as if I’m waitin’ for ’er to come in. ’Tidn’t like she’s dead, to me." The women glanced at him kindly. They were sorry for him, a poor forlorn creature, a widow man. "I’m afraid," said Mrs. Tom, regretfully, "we shall ’av to bury ’er up pretty quick. Mrs. Bate think she oughtn’t to be kep’ longer’n Monday." "Monday?" cried the man and, for a moment, lifted his heavy lids and stared at her. "You don’t mean it? Why it’s now Saturday?" "Well, my dear, she died on a full stomach and you know you can’t keep her very long. Still I should be the last to ’urry ’er into ’er grave. We’ll see what Mr. ’Enwood say."