A day or two passed, and the body was
transferred to a massive coffin long regarded as the finest piece of
work of its kind ever turned out of the village carpenter's workshop.
Then a slow and melancholy cortege headed by four bearers wound its
solemn way across the marshes to the family vault in the grey old
church, and all that was left of Ursula was placed by the father and
mother who had taken that self-same journey some thirty years before.
To Eunice as they toiled slowly home the day seemed strange and Sabbath-
like, the flat prospect of marsh wilder and more forlorn than usual, the
roar of the sea more depressing. Tabitha had no such fancies. The bulk
of the dead woman's property had been left to Eunice, and her avaricious
soul was sorely troubled and her proper sisterly feelings of regret for
the deceased sadly interfered with in consequence.
"What are you going to do with all that money, Eunice?" she asked as
they sat at their quiet tea.
"I shall leave it as it stands," said Eunice slowly. "We have both got
sufficient to live upon, and I shall devote the income from it to
supporting some beds in a children's hospital."
"If Ursula had wished it to go to a hospital," said Tabitha in her deep
tones, "she would have left the money to it herself. I wonder you do
not respect her wishes more."
"What else can I do with it then?" inquired Eunice.
"Save it," said the other with gleaming eyes, "save it."
Eunice shook her head.
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