John D. Swain

“ Candles are in cathedrals, and coffee-houses. They are lighted in joy and sorrow. They grace austere old houses where are much worn silver and old books and solid furniture polished by generations of hands, and frowning portraits on faded walls. They burn in thieves' cellars. They are gay, arrogant, furtive. Seen in this isolated house, and long past midnight, they could indicate but one occasion: death!
Heritage, forgetting his first impulse to ask for food, was moved to pause here to pay his respects to the dead. ”

“ With the urbanity of famine, he would salute the still one, old man, woman, child, with a hail and farewell.
He entered in; and as he thrust open the unlocked door, a venerable man rose and bowed. "I have been waiting," he said simply. "I knew you would come."
"How could you know, when I only took this road, a strange one to me, by chance?"
The old man smiled. "There is no such thing as chance. ”

“ Abruptly, the voice of the old man ceased. After a moment he said: "There is no mummy case. That I could not afford to buy. So I have prepared a simple cedar box, lined with soft silk, outside in the grave I have digged for her. And now I must lift her in my arms and take her out; but this is sacrilege, and so, according to the immutable law of old Egypt, you my acolyte must curse me, and make pretense of stoning me."
Heritage bowed. It seemed to him very fitting that he should do these things; and he carefully set down the candles, and took the stone that was handed him. ”