“好吧，”他说，“如果你不相信她是什么样的人，那你信不信她受过三次宗教坚信礼？”

    “胡说！”莫瑞尔太太大笑起来。

    “不管是不是胡说，她确实是这样。坚信礼对她来说——是她大出风头的戏场。”

    “我没有，莫瑞尔太太，”女孩子叫了起来——“ 我没有，这不是真的。”

    “什么！”他大喊着，猛地向她转过身来，“一次在布隆利，一次在肯肯罕，还有一次在别的什么地方。”

    “再没有什么别的地方！”她说着，哭了，“再没有别的什么地方！”

    “有的！就算没有，那你为什么行两次坚信礼？”

    “ 有一次我才十四岁，莫瑞尔太太。”她含着眼泪辩解着。

    “噢，”莫瑞尔太太说，“我完全理解，孩子，别理他。威廉，说出这样的话你应该感到羞愧！”

    “但这是真的。她信仰宗教——她过去有本蓝天鹅绒面的祈祷书——但是，她内心的宗教信仰都不比这条桌子腿强多少，她行了三次坚信礼，那只是为了表现，为了显示自己。这就是她对一切的态度——一切！”

    姑娘坐在沙发上，哭了，她生性软弱。

    “至于爱情！”他叫道，“你最好还是叫只苍蝇去爱你吧，它会喜欢叮在你身上的……！”

    “好了，别再说了，”莫瑞尔太太下命令了，“如果你要说的话就找个别的地方说去吧。威廉，我都为你感到羞愧！为什么不表现出男子汉的气概？干别的什么都不行，专找姑娘的岔，还说是同她订了婚！”

    莫瑞尔太太气极败坏地坐下来。

    威廉不吭声了，后来， 他似乎后悔了，吻着姑娘，安慰她。不过他说的是真话。他厌恶她。

    他们就要离家的时候，莫瑞尔太太陪他们到了诺丁汉。还 有很 长一段路才能到凯斯顿车站。

    “你知道，妈妈，”他对她说，“吉普是个肤浅的人，心里不会思考你任何事。”

    “威廉，我希望你别说这些事。”莫瑞尔太太说，她真为走在她旁边的姑娘感到难过。

    “这又怎么了，妈妈，现在她非常爱我。但如果我死了，要不了三个月她就会把我忘到九霄云外去。”

    莫瑞尔太太感到可怕极了，听到儿子最后那句痛快的话，她的心狂跳起来，久久不能平静。

    “你怎么知道？”她说，“你不知道，就没有权利说这种话。”

    “他常常说这样的话。”姑娘大声嚷嚷。

    “我死后，下葬不到三个月，你准会另有新欢，把我忘了，”他说，“这就是你的爱情。”

    在诺丁汉，莫瑞尔太太看着他们上了火车，才往家走。

    “有一点可让人放心，”她对保罗说，“他永远不会有钱来结婚，这点我肯定，这样的话，她反而救了他。”

    于是，她开始感到宽慰。事情还没有发展到不可挽救的地步。她坚信威廉不会娶吉普的。她等待着，并把保罗拴在身边。

    整个夏天，威廉的来信都流露出一种发狂的情绪。他好象和往常截然不同，像换了个人似的。有时候，他会高兴得有些夸张，而有时，他的信的语调平淡而感伤。

    “唉，”母亲说，“恐怕他会为这个女人而毁了自己，她根本不值得 他爱——不值，她只不过是个洋娃娃罢了。”

    他想回家，可是暑假已经过了，而离圣诞还有很长一段时间。他写信激动地说，他要在十月份的第一个星期，鹅市时回家来度周末。

    “你身体不太好，孩子。”母亲一看到他时就这么说。

    她又回到了母亲身边，这使她感动得几乎要流泪了。

    “是的，我这一段时间一直不太好。”他说，“上个月我感冒了，一直拖到现在还好不了。不过，我想快好了。”

    十月的天气阳光灿烂，他似乎欣喜若狂，像个逃学的学生。但，随后他就更加变得沉默了。他比以前更清瘦了，眼里流露一种燃淬的神情。

    “你工作太辛苦了。”母亲对他说。

    说是为了挣钱结婚， 他加班加点地工作。他只在星期六晚上跟母亲谈到过一次未婚妻，言谈之中充满伤感和怜惜。

    “但是，你知道吗，妈妈，虽然我们现在这样，可是如果我死了，她最多只会伤心两个月，之后，她就会忘了我的。你会看到，她决不会回家来看看我的坟墓，连一次都不会。”

    “哦，威廉，”母亲说，“你又不会死去，为什么要说这个？”

    “但不管怎样……”他回答。

    “她也没有办法，她就是那种人，既然你选择了她——那么，你就不能抱怨。”母亲说。

    星期天早晨，他要戴上硬领时：

    “看，”他对他妈妈说，翘着下巴，“我的领子把下巴磨成什么样子了！”

    就在下巴和喉咙之间有一大块红肿块。

    “不应该这样啊，”母亲说，“来，擦上点止痛膏吧。你应该换别的领子了。”

    他在星期天的半夜走了，在家呆了两天，他看上去好了些，也好象坚强了些。

    星期二早晨，一封从伦敦来的电报说他病了。当时莫瑞尔太太正跪在那儿擦地板，读完电报后，她跟邻居打了个招呼，找房东太太借了一个金镑，穿戴好后就走了。她急匆匆地赶到凯顿车站，在诺丁汉等了近一个小时，搭了一辆特快列车去了伦敦。她戴着她黑色的帽子，矮矮的身材焦急地走来走去，问搬运工怎样到艾尔默斯区。这次旅程的三个小时，她神色迷茫地坐在车厢角落里，一动不动。到了皇家岔口，还是没人知道怎么去艾尔默斯区。她提着装着她的睡衣、梳子、刷子的网兜，逢人便打听，终于，有人告诉她乘地铁到坎农街。

    当她赶到威廉的住处时已经六点了，百叶窗还没拉下来。

    “他怎么样了？”她问道。

    “不太好。”房东太太说。

    她跟着那个女人上了楼。威廉躺在床上，眼里充满血丝，面无血色，衣服扔得满地都是，屋里也没生火。一杯牛奶放在床边，没有一个人陪他。

    “啊，我的孩子！”母亲鼓起勇气说。

    他没有回答，只是望着她，可是好象并没有看到她一样。过了一会儿，他开始说话了，声音模糊不清，好象是在口授一封信：“由于该船货舱漏报，糖因受潮结块，急需凿碎……”

    他已经没有知觉了。在伦敦港检验船上装的糖是属于他份内的工作。

    “他这样已多久了？”母亲问房东太太。

    “星期一早晨他是六点钟回来的，他好象睡了一整天。然后到了晚上我们听到他说胡话了。今天早晨他要找你来，因此我拍了电报，我们还请了一个医生。”

    “能帮忙生个火吗？”

    莫瑞尔太大努力地安慰儿子， 想让他平静下来。

    医生来了，他说这是肺炎，而且还中了很特殊的丹毒，丹毒从硬领磨烂的下巴开始，已经扩散到脸部，他希望不要扩大到脑子里。

    莫瑞尔太太住下来照顾他。她为威廉祈祷，祈祷他能再认出她来。但是这个年轻人的脸色越来越苍白。晚上，她和他一起同病魔斗争着。他颠三倒四地乱说一气，始终没有恢复知觉。到半夜两点时，病情突然恶化了，他死了。

    莫瑞尔太太在这间租来的房子里像石头一样静静地坐了将近一小时，然后，她唤醒左右邻 居。

    清早六点，在打杂女工的帮助下，她安置好威廉的尸体。然后，她穿行在阴郁的伦敦村去找户籍官和医生。

    九点钟，斯卡吉尔街的这间小屋里又接到了一封电报。

    “威廉夜亡，父带钱来。”

    安妮、保罗、亚瑟都在家，莫瑞尔上班去了。三个孩子一句话也没说，安妮害怕地呜咽起来，保罗去找父亲。

    那一天，天气晴朗明媚，布林斯利矿井的白色蒸汽在柔和的蓝天阳光下慢慢地融化了，吊车的轮子在高处闪光，筛子正往货车上送着煤，弄出一片嘈杂声。

    “我找我爸爸，他得去伦敦。”孩子在井口碰见第一个人后就说。

    “你找沃尔斯特·莫瑞尔吧？去那边告诉乔·沃德。”

    保罗走到顶部那间小小的办公室。

    “我找我爸爸，他得去伦敦。”

    “你爸爸？他在井下吗？他叫什么？”

    “莫瑞尔先生。”

    “什么，莫瑞尔，出什么事啦？”

    “他得去伦敦。”

    那人走到电话旁，摇通了井底办公室。

    “找沃尔斯特·莫瑞尔，42号，哈特坑道。家里出什么事了，他的孩子在这儿。”

    然后他转身对着保罗。

    “他马上就上来。”他说。

    保罗漫步走到井口顶上，看着罐座托着运煤车升了上来。那只巨大的罐笼停稳后，满满一车煤被拖了出来，另一节空煤车被推上罐座，不知什么地方响起了铃声，罐座猛地动了一下，像石头一样飞速跌落下去。

    保罗无法接受威廉已经死了，这是不可能的，这儿不是依然热热闹闹的吗？装卸工把小货车搬到了转台上，另外一个工人推着货车沿着弯弯曲曲的井口铁轨向前跑去。

    “威廉死了，妈妈去了伦敦，她在那儿干什么呢？”孩子问着自己，仿佛这是一个猜不透的谜。

    他看着一只接一只的罐笼升了起来，可就是没有父亲。终于，在运煤车旁，他看到一个男人的身影。罐笼停稳后，莫瑞尔走来了。由于上次事故，他的腿稍微有点瘸。

    “是你，保罗？他更严重了吗？”

    “你得去趟伦敦。”

    两人离开矿井，好多人好奇地看着他们。 他们走出矿区，沿着铁路向前走去。一边是沐浴秋天阳光的田野，一边是像墙一样的长列货车。莫瑞尔有些惊恐地问：

    “ 他没死吧，孩子？”

    “死了。”

    “什么时候死的？”

    “昨天晚上，我们接到妈妈的电报。”

    莫瑞尔走了几步，斜靠在一辆卡车旁，双手蒙着眼睛，他没有哭。保罗站在那里，张望着四周等他。一架过磅机上，一辆货车慢慢开过。保罗望着周围的一切，就是回避不看似乎累了斜靠在煤车上的父亲。

    莫瑞尔以前去过一次伦敦。 他动身去帮妻子，心里害怕，神情憔悴。那一天是星期二，孩子们留在家里。保罗去上班，亚瑟去上学，安妮有一位朋友陪着她。

    星期六晚上，保罗从休斯顿回家，刚拐过弯，他就看到从塞斯利桥车站回来的父母。他们在黑暗中无言地走着，精疲力尽，两人拉开一大截距离，保罗等着。

    “妈妈！”他在黑暗中喊了一声。

    莫瑞尔太太瘦小的身躯似乎没有反应。他又叫一声。

    “保罗！”她应道，仍是十分漠然的样子。

    她让他吻了一下，但她似乎对他没有感觉。

    回到家里，她依旧是那副神情——愈发矮小，面色苍白，一声不响。她对什么都不在意，对什么都不过问，只是说：

    “棺材今天晚上就运到这儿了，沃尔特，你最好找人帮帮忙。”然后，转过身来对孩子说，“ 我们把他运回来了。”

    说完她又恢复了那种一言不发的状态，两眼茫然地看着屋里的空间，两手交叠放在大腿上。保罗看着她，觉得自己气都喘不过来了，屋里死一般的寂静。

    “我上班了，妈妈。”他痛楚地说。

    “是吗？”她回答，神情阴郁。

    半小时后，莫瑞尔烦恼不安，手足无措地又进来了。

    “他来了，我们应该把他放在哪儿？”他问妻子。

    “放在前屋里。”

    “那我还得搬掉桌子吧？”

    “嗯”

    “把他放在椅子上？”

    “你知道放在那儿——对，我也这样想。”

    莫瑞尔和保罗拿了支蜡烛，走进了客厅，里面没有煤气灯。父亲把那张桃花木的大圆桌的桌面拧了下 来，空出屋子中间，又找来六把椅子面对面地排着，准备放棺材。

    “从来没见过他这么高的人！”这个矿工说，边干活边焦急地张望着。

    保罗走到凸窗前，向外望着，夜色朦胧，那株白蜡树怪模怪样地站在黑暗之中。保罗回到母亲身边。

    十点钟，莫瑞尔喊道：

    “他来了！”

    大家都吃了一惊。前门传来一阵开锁取门闩的声音。门开处，夜色涌进屋内。

    “再拿一支蜡烛来。”莫瑞尔喊道。

    安妮和亚瑟去了。保罗陪着母亲，一手扶着母亲的腰站在里屋门口。在这间干干净净的屋子里，六张椅子面对面的已经摆好了。窗边，亚瑟靠着花边窗帘，举着一支蜡烛。在敞开的门口，安妮背对着黑夜，向前探身。站在那里，手里的铜烛台发着光。

    一阵车轮声。保罗看见外面黑漆漆的街上几匹马拉着一辆黑色的灵车，上面是一盏灯，两侧是几张惨白的脸。接着，几个男人，都是只穿着衬衫的矿工，好象在拼命用力。一会儿，两个男人出现了，他们抬着沉重的棺材，腰都压弯了。这是莫瑞尔和一个邻居。

    “抬稳了！”莫瑞尔上气不接下气地说。

    他和同伴们踏上园子里很陡的台阶，微微发光的棺材头在烛光下起起伏伏。其他人的胳膊在后面使着劲。前面的莫瑞尔和本茨踉跄了一下，这个黑色的庞然大物就晃动起来。

    "Well," he said, "if you don't believe me, what she's like,would you believe she has been confirmed three times?"
　　"Nonsense!" laughed Mrs. Morel.
　　"Nonsense or not, she HAS! That's what confirmation meansfor her--a bit of a theatrical show where she can cut a figure."
　　"I haven't, Mrs. Morel!" cried the girl--"I haven't! itis not true!"
　　"What!" he cried, flashing round on her. "Once in Bromley,once in Beckenham, and once somewhere else."
　　"Nowhere else!" she said, in tears--"nowhere else!"
　　"It WAS! And if it wasn't why were you confirmed TWICE?"
　　"Once I was only fourteen, Mrs. Morel," she pleaded,tears in her eyes.
　　"Yes," said Mrs. Morel; "I can quite understand it, child. Take nonotice of him. You ought to be ashamed, William, saying such things."
　　"But it's true. She's religious--she had blue velvetPrayer-Books--and she's not as much religion, or anything else,in her than that table-leg. Gets confirmed three times for show,to show herself off, and that's how she is in EVERYTHING--EVERYTHING!"
　　The girl sat on the sofa, crying. She was not strong.
　　"As for LOVE!" he cried, "you might as well ask a fly to love you! It'll love settling on you---"
　　"Now, say no more," commanded Mrs. Morel. "If you wantto say these things, you must find another place than this. I am ashamed of you, William! Why don't you be more manly. To do nothing but find fault with a girl, and then pretend you'reengaged to her! "
　　Mrs. Morel subsided in wrath and indignation.
　　William was silent, and later he repented, kissed and comfortedthe girl. Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her.
　　When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as faras Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station.
　　"You know, mother," he said to her, "Gyp's shallow. Nothing goes deep with her."
　　"William, I WISH you wouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel,very uncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her.
　　"But it doesn't, mother. She's very much in love with me now,but if I died she'd have forgotten me in three months."
　　Mrs. Morel was afraid. Her heart beat furiously, hearing thequiet bitterness of her son's last speech.
　　"How do you know?" she replied. "You DON'T know, and thereforeyou've no right to say such a thing."
　　"He's always saying these things!" cried the girl.
　　"In three months after I was buried you'd have somebody else,and I should be forgotten," he said. "And that's your love!"
　　Mrs. Morel saw them into the train in Nottingham, then shereturned home.
　　"There's one comfort," she said to Paul--"he'll never have anymoney to marry on, that I AM sure of. And so she'll save him that way."
　　So she took cheer. Matters were not yet very desperate. She firmly believed William would never marry his Gipsy. She waited,and she kept Paul near to her.
　　All summer long William's letters had a feverish tone; he seemedunnatural and intense. Sometimes he was exaggeratedly jolly,usually he was flat and bitter in his letter.
　　"Ah," his mother said, "I'm afraid he's ruining himselfagainst that creature, who isn't worthy of his love--no, no morethan a rag doll."
　　He wanted to come home. The midsummer holiday was gone;it was a long while to Christmas. He wrote in wild excitement,saying he could come for Saturday and Sunday at Goose Fair, the firstweek in October.
　　"You are not well, my boy," said his mother, when she saw him. She was almost in tears at having him to herself again.
　　"No, I've not been well," he said. "I've seemed to havea dragging cold all the last month, but it's going, I think."
　　It was sunny October weather. He seemed wild with joy,like a schoolboy escaped; then again he was silent and reserved. He was more gaunt than ever, and there was a haggard look in his eyes.
　　"You are doing too much," said his mother to him.
　　He was doing extra work, trying to make some money to marry on,he said. He only talked to his mother once on the Saturday night;then he was sad and tender about his beloved.
　　"And yet, you know, mother, for all that, if I died she'd bebroken-hearted for two months, and then she'd start to forget me. You'd see, she'd never come home here to look at my grave,not even once."
　　"Why, William," said his mother, "you're not going to die,so why talk about it?"
　　"But whether or not---" he replied.
　　"And she can't help it. She is like that, and if you chooseher--well, you can't grumble," said his mother.
　　On the Sunday morning, as he was putting his collar on:
　　"Look," he said to his mother, holding up his chin, "what arash my collar's made under my chin!"
　　Just at the junction of chin and throat was a big red inflammation.
　　"It ought not to do that," said his mother. "Here, put a bitof this soothing ointment on. You should wear different collars."
　　He went away on Sunday midnight, seeming better and more solidfor his two days at home.
　　On Tuesday morning came a telegram from London that he was ill. Mrs. Morel got off her knees from washing the floor, read the telegram,called a neighbour, went to her landlady and borrowed a sovereign,put on her things, and set off. She hurried to Keston, caught anexpress for London in Nottingham. She had to wait in Nottinghamnearly an hour. A small figure in her black bonnet, she wasanxiously asking the porters if they knew how to get to Elmers End. The journey was three hours. She sat in her corner in a kind of stupor,never moving. At King's Cross still no one could tell her howto get to Elmers End. Carrying her string bag, that containedher nightdress, a comb and brush, she went from person to person. At last they sent her underground to Cannon Street.
　　It was six o'clock when she arrived at William's lodging. The blinds were not down.
　　"How is he?" she asked.
　　"No better," said the landlady.
　　She followed the woman upstairs. William lay on the bed,with bloodshot eyes, his face rather discoloured. The clothes weretossed about, there was no fire in the room, a glass of milk stoodon the stand at his bedside. No one had been with him.
　　"Why, my son!" said the mother bravely.
　　He did not answer. He looked at her, but did not see her. Then he began to say, in a dull voice, as if repeating a letterfrom dictation: "Owing to a leakage in the hold of this vessel,the sugar had set, and become converted into rock. It needed hacking---"
　　He was quite unconscious. It had been his business to examinesome such cargo of sugar in the Port of London.
　　"How long has he been like this?" the mother asked the landlady.
　　"He got home at six o'clock on Monday morning, and he seemedto sleep all day; then in the night we heard him talking, and thismorning he asked for you. So I wired, and we fetched the doctor."
　　"Will you have a fire made?"
　　Mrs. Morel tried to soothe her son, to keep him still.
　　The doctor came. It was pneumonia, and, he said, a peculiarerysipelas, which had started under the chin where the collar chafed,and was spreading over the face. He hoped it would not get to the brain.
　　Mrs. Morel settled down to nurse. She prayed for William,prayed that he would recognise her. But the young man's face grewmore discoloured. In the night she struggled with him. He raved,and raved, and would not come to consciousness. At two o'clock,in a dreadful paroxysm, he died.
　　Mrs. Morel sat perfectly still for an hour in the lodging bedroom;then she roused the household.
　　At six o'clock, with the aid of the charwoman, she laid him out;then she went round the dreary London village to the registrarand the doctor.
　　At nine o'clock to the cottage on Scargill Street cameanother wire:
　　"William died last night. Let father come, bring money."
　　Annie, Paul, and Arthur were at home; Mr. Morel was goneto work. The three children said not a word. Annie began to whimperwith fear; Paul set off for his father.
　　It was a beautiful day. At Brinsley pit the white steam meltedslowly in the sunshine of a soft blue sky; the wheels of the headstockstwinkled high up; the screen, shuffling its coal into the trucks,made a busy noise.
　　"I want my father; he's got to go to London," said the boyto the first man he met on the bank.
　　"Tha wants Walter Morel? Go in theer an' tell Joe Ward."
　　Paul went into the little top office.
　　"I want my father; he's got to go to London."
　　"Thy feyther? Is he down? What's his name?"
　　"Mr. Morel."
　　"What, Walter? Is owt amiss?"
　　"He's got to go to London."
　　The man went to the telephone and rang up the bottom office.
　　"Walter Morel's wanted, number 42, Hard. Summat's amiss;there's his lad here."
　　Then he turned round to Paul.
　　"He'll be up in a few minutes," he said.
　　Paul wandered out to the pit-top. He watched the chair come up,with its wagon of coal. The great iron cage sank back on its rest,a full carfle was hauled off, an empty tram run on to the chair,a bell ting'ed somewhere, the chair heaved, then dropped likea stone.
　　Paul did not realise William was dead; it was impossible,with such a bustle going on. The puller-off swung the small truckon to the turn-table, another man ran with it along the bank downthe curving lines.
　　"And William is dead, and my mother's in London, and what willshe be doing?" the boy asked himself, as if it were a conundrum.
　　He watched chair after chair come up, and still no father. At last, standing beside a wagon, a man's form! the chair sank onits rests, Morel stepped off. He was slightly lame from an accident.
　　"Is it thee, Paul? Is 'e worse?"
　　"You've got to go to London."
　　The two walked off the pit-bank, where men were watching curiously. As they came out and went along the railway, with thesunny autumn field on one side and a wall of trucks on the other, Morel said in a frightened voice:
　　"'E's niver gone, child?"
　　"Yes."
　　"When wor't?"
　　"Last night. We had a telegram from my mother."
　　Morel walked on a few strides, then leaned up againsta truck-side, his hand over his eyes. He was not crying. Paul stood looking round, waiting. On the weighingmachine a truck trundled slowly. Paul saw everything,except his father leaning against the truck as if he were tired.
　　Morel had only once before been to London. He set off,scared and peaked, to help his wife. That was on Tuesday. The children were left alone in the house. Paul went to work,Arthur went to school, and Annie had in a friend to be with her.
　　On Saturday night, as Paul was turning the corner, coming homefrom Keston, he saw his mother and father, who had come to SethleyBridge Station. They were walking in silence in the dark, tired,straggling apart. The boy waited.
　　"Mother!" he said, in the darkness.
　　Mrs. Morel's small figure seemed not to observe. He spoke again.
　　"Paul!" she said, uninterestedly.
　　She let him kiss her, but she seemed unaware of him.
　　In the house she was the same--small, white, and mute. She noticed nothing, she said nothing, only:
　　"The coffin will be here to-night, Walter. You'd better seeabout some help." Then, turning to the children: "We're bringinghim home."
　　Then she relapsed into the same mute looking into space,her hands folded on her lap. Paul, looking at her, felt he couldnot breathe. The house was dead silent.
　　"I went to work, mother," he said plaintively.
　　"Did you?" she answered, dully.
　　After half an hour Morel, troubled and bewildered, came in again.
　　"Wheer s'll we ha'e him when he DOEScome?" he asked his wife.
　　"In the front-room."
　　"Then I'd better shift th' table?"
　　"Yes."
　　"An' ha'e him across th' chairs?"
　　"You know there---Yes, I suppose so."
　　Morel and Paul went, with a candle, into the parlour. There was no gas there. The father unscrewed the top of the bigmahogany oval table, and cleared the middle of the room; then hearranged six chairs opposite each other, so that the coffin couldstand on their beds.
　　"You niver seed such a length as he is!" said the miner,and watching anxiously as he worked.
　　Paul went to the bay window and looked out. The ash-treestood monstrous and black in front of the wide darkness. It was a faintly luminous night. Paul went back to his mother.
　　At ten o'clock Morel called:
　　"He's here!"
　　Everyone started. There was a noise of unbarring and unlockingthe front door, which opened straight from the night into the room.
　　"Bring another candle," called Morel.
　　Annie and Arthur went. Paul followed with his mother. He stood with his arm round her waist in the inner doorway. Down the middle of the cleared room waited six chairs, face to face. In the window, against the lace curtains, Arthur held up one candle,and by the open door, against the night, Annie stood leaning forward,her brass candlestick glittering.
　　There was the noise of wheels. Outside in the darkness of thestreet below Paul could see horses and a black vehicle, one lamp,and a few pale faces; then some men, miners, all in their shirt-sleeves,seemed to struggle in the obscurity. Presently two men appeared,bowed beneath a great weight. It was Morel and his neighbour.
　　"Steady!" called Morel, out of breath.
　　He and his fellow mounted the steep garden step, heaved intothe candlelight with their gleaming coffin-end. Limbs of other menwere seen struggling behind. Morel and Burns, in front, staggered;the great dark weight swayed.