prickly wreath, sewing on the variegated holly-leaves one by one, with
clusters of berries at intervals.

'What good'll it do 'im?' she asked; 'he canna see it.'

'Who wants him to see it?' Abel was amused. 'When his father died he
'ad his enjoyment--proud as proud was Samson, for there were seven
wreaths, no less.'

Hazel's thoughts returned to the coming festivity. Her hair and her
peacock-blue dress would be admired. To be admired was a wonderful new
sensation. She fetched a cloth and rubbed at the brown mark. It would
not come out. As long as she wore the dress it would be there, like the
stigma of pain that all creatures bear as long as they wear the garment
of the flesh.

At last she burst into tears.

'I want another dress with no blood on it!' she wailed. And so wailing
she voiced the deep lament, old as the moan of forests and falling
water, that goes up through the centuries to the aloof and silent sky,
and remains, as ever, unassuaged.

* * * * *

Hazel hated a burying, for then she had to go with Abel to help in
carrying the coffin to the house of mourning. They set out on the
second day after her return. The steep road down to the plain--called
the Monkey's Ladder--was a river, for a thaw had set in. But Hazel did
not mind that, though her boots let in the water, as she minded the