whole bundle of illustrated papers and magazines. About my fourth
return after more horses,--I was mighty near one of the family by
that time,--when we were all seated around the fire one night,
the women poring over the papers and admiring the pictures, the
old man inquired what the news was over in the parish where I had
recently been. The only thing that I could remember was the
suicide of a prominent man. After explaining the circumstances, I
went on to say that some little bitterness arose over his burial.
Owing to his prominence it was thought permission would be given
to bury him in the churchyard. But it seems there was some
superstition about permitting a self-murderer to be buried in the
same field as decent folks. It was none of my funeral, and I
didn't pay overmuch attention to the matter, but the authorities
refused, and they buried him just outside the grounds, in the
woods.

"My host and I discussed the matter at some length. He contended
that if the man was not of sound mind, he should have been given
his little six feet of earth among the others. A horse salesman
has to be a good second-rate talker, and being anxious to show
off before the girl, I differed with her father. The argument
grew spirited yet friendly, and I appealed to the women in
supporting my view. My hostess was absorbed at the time in
reading a sensational account of a woman shooting her betrayer.
The illustrations covered a whole page, and the girl was simply
burning, at short range, the shirt from off her seducer. The old
lady was bogged to the saddle skirts in the story, when I
interrupted her and inquired, 'Mother, what do you think ought to
be done with a man who commits suicide?' She lowered the paper
just for an instant, and looking over her spectacles at me