Turning hastily, Milbanke saw the broad, plain face of Hannah; her small eyes red, her rough cheeks stained with weeping.
"Why, Hannah!" he exclaimed, "what are you doing here? I thought you were at the funeral."
Hannah passed the back of her hand across her eyes.
"Wisha, what would I be doin' at it?" she demanded huskily. "Sure I don't know what they do be seein' in funerals at all."
Milbanke glanced up with interest, recognising the originality of the remark.
"Why, you and I are of the same opinion," he said. "The Celtic delight in the obsequies of a friend has been puzzling me for the last three days——" Then he paused suddenly, conscious of Hannah's fixed regard. "That is," he substituted quickly—"that is, I have been wondering, like you, what they see in it."
Hannah's small, observant eyes did not waver in their scrutiny.
"You've been wonderin' about somethin', sure enough!" she said. "I seen it meself every time I'd be carryin' in the dinner or doin' a turn for the poor corpse. God be good to him this holy and blessed day!" Again she wiped her eyes. "But 'tisn't wonderin' alone that's at you," she added more briskly. "'Tis some other thing that's lyin' heavy on your mind. I seen it meself at every hand's turn."
Milbanke started. This sympathetic onslaught was as disconcerting as it was unexpected.
"I—I won't contradict you, Hannah," he said waveringly. "No doubt you are right."