Dust to dust: but the grains of this dust were gross like
cherries, and the true dust that was to follow sat near by, still
cohering (as by a miracle) in the tragic semblance of a female ape.

So far, Mormon or not, it was a Christian funeral. The well-known
passage had been read from Job, the prayers had been rehearsed, the
grave was filled, the mourners straggled homeward. With a little
coarser grain of covering earth, a little nearer outcry of the sea,
a stronger glare of sunlight on the rude enclosure, and some
incongruous colours of attire, the well-remembered form had been
observed.

By rights it should have been otherwise. The mat should have been
buried with its owner; but, the family being poor, it was thriftily
reserved for a fresh service. The widow should have flung herself
upon the grave and raised the voice of official grief, the
neighbours have chimed in, and the narrow isle rung for a space
with lamentation. But the widow was old; perhaps she had
forgotten, perhaps never understood, and she played like a child
with leaves and coffin-stretchers. In all ways my guest was buried
with maimed rites. Strange to think that his last conscious
pleasure was the Casco and my feast; strange to think that he had
limped there, an old child, looking for some new good. And the
good thing, rest, had been allotted him.

But though the widow had neglected much, there was one part she
must not utterly neglect. She came away with the dispersing
funeral; but the dead man's mat was left behind upon the grave, and
I learned that by set of sun she must return to sleep there. This
vigil is imperative. From sundown till the rising of the morning