Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.
* * * * *
Swift to be hurled,
Anywhere, anywhere,
Out of the world."
This I felt had been her history! This should have been her epitaph; but, alas for her, there would be reared no recording stone. All that she had achieved in life was the few inches of ground wherein they laid her, and the shovel full of dirt with which they covered her. Poor thing! I was not allowed to dress the body for the grave. Hurriedly they dug a hole and tossed her in. I was the only one who consecrated the obsequies with funeral tears. A coarse joy and ribald jests rang from the lips of the grave-diggers; but I was there to weep and water the spot with tributary tears.
"Perishing gloomily,
Spurred by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,