The enshrouding was followed by kowtowing, then weeping, which the women did with improvised librettos. The body was then put in the coffin, followed by more kowtowing and weeping until the lid was nailed down. A momentary silence was almost immediately succeeded by a tenseness, a feeling of surprise and dissatisfaction in the atmosphere. It had suddenly occurred to everyone, as it occurred to me, that during all the time Lien-shu had not shed a single tear. He only sat distractedly upon the mourner's straw mat, his eyes glittering out of his swarthy countenance.
The encoffining was concluded in this atmosphere of surprise and dissatisfaction. The spectators were about to disperse, as Lien-shu continued to sit abstractedly on the straw mat. But suddenly his tears began to flow. They were followed by sobs which immediately turned into the long howls of a wounded wolf in the wilderness deep at night—cries of pain, fury, and sorrow. This was something uncalled for by old tradition; the assemblage, taken by surprise, did not know what to do. After a while, a few went up to him to persuade him to stop crying. Others joined the group until he was entirely surrounded, but he continued to utter his heartbreaking cries, oblivious of the people around him.
As their efforts to quiet him were of no avail, they desisted and walked away from him awkwardly. He wept for about half an hour, then suddenly stopped and went inside without a word of thanks to the mourners. Someone went in to peep and came back with the report that he had gone into his grandmother's room, that he was lying down and appeared to have gone off to sleep.
Two days later, the day before I was to start back for the city, I heard heated discussions among the villagers. They said that Lien-shu wanted to burn up most of the furniture
