had passed away in his sleep without a word or sign. Only the coldness of his face under its loose covering told her what had happened.
As a rule the Martials do not fear death, and do not make much of it. They never wear mourning, and never indulge in a grand funeral. This girl was a very affectionate one, and had been her father's favourite from birth, and so the sudden loss was a terrible affliction. I did not try to check her tears: I knew that they would bring relief, and so merely got her away from her father's body. I communicated with her brother and Fred, and went to the nearest hostel for the night. I gave Helen up to the matron, who was very kind and sympathetic, and left the body laid out in the boat until Harry and Fred could arrive.
It was morning when they came. They were weary, and had forgot to take dinner the day before. I saw that they had breakfast, and we all rested until noon. We then decided to take the old man's body to his home. Harry sent word to Mother Vance. Fred and Harry went in Hern's boat and I carried Helen and the corpse. We were a silent company. We had to go to Highton, section 725, a district some three hundred miles north-east of Sidonia. We arrived at nineteen o'clock, and found all in readiness for our burden. Fred and I were invited to remain with the family, but thinking they would be better without us we went to the hostel.
The next day, at noon, a special boat, with a recepticle for the corpse, came to Hern's. We were ready to follow it. A married sister of Helen's and her husband, Mother Vance, Helen, Harry, Fred and I followed in three boats. We flew slowly to the nearest crematory.
There we alighted on a beautifully kept lawn, and four men came for the corpse. It was carried into the building and placed on a kind of shelf near one of the walls. There was nothing about the building that we could see to suggest fire or death or anything painful or unpleasant. We followed the body in, and each placed upon it a stick of perfumed wood and a few flowers. Then one of our religious teachers, a friend of the family, came and made a few appropriate remarks, mostly of a consoling and thanksgiving character. What he said ended in something like this strain:—'The untenanted body of our friend who has passed from amongst us we reverently commit to the elements from whence it has been derived. It was to him a clothing and a useful working servant; he treated it properly as a gift of God; he has left it for us to dispose of, and we set its various component parts free that they may again be of use in other structures. This is not our friend whom we return to nature's storehouse, but a shell that he has worn and done with. Our friend is in God's hands, and is therefore safe. Nothing evil can happen to him, for the Giver of Life gave Death as the end of Life, its natural conclusion, and what is natural is also right and good.' Here the speaker pressed a spring, and the shelf and its burden slowly drew into the wall. As it went he said, 'What we have known as Thomas Hern passes from our
