“Ireckonshe’sagoin’tobeprettylateag’intonight，Jim，“heremarkedinasqueakyfalsetto。“S’poseit’sthesnow？“
“Idon’tknow，“respondedtheothermanwithashadeofannoyance，speakingfromoutanastonishingcataractofredbeardthatgrewfiercelyandthicklyinalldirections。
Thesparemanshiftedthequilltoothpickhewaschewingtotheothersideofhismouth。“Itain’tlikelythatanybodyfromtheEastwillcomewiththecorpse，Is’pose，“hewentonreflectively。
“Idon’tknow，“respondedtheother，morecurtlythanbefore。
“It’stoobadhedidn’tbelongtosomelodgeorother。I
likeanorderfuneralmyself。Theyseemmoreappropriateforpeopleofsomereputation，“thesparemancontinued，withaningratiatingconcessioninhisshrillvoice，ashecarefullyplacedhistoothpickinhisvestpocket。HealwayscarriedtheflagattheG。A。R。funeralsinthetown。
Theheavymanturnedonhisheel，withoutreplying，andwalkedupthesiding。Thesparemanshuffledbacktotheuneasygroup。
“Jim’sezfullezatick，ezushel，“hecommentedcommiseratingly。
Justthenadistantwhistlesounded，andtherewasashufflingoffeetontheplatform。Anumberoflankyboysofallagesappearedassuddenlyandslimilyaseelswakenedbythecrackofthunder；somecamefromthewaitingroom，wheretheyhadbeenwarmingthemselvesbytheredstove，orhalf-asleepontheslatbenches；othersuncoiledthemselvesfrombaggagetrucksorslidoutofexpresswagons。Twoclambereddownfromthedriver’sseatofahearsethatstoodbackedupagainstthesiding。Theystraightenedtheirstoopingshouldersandliftedtheirheads，andaflashofmomentaryanimationkindledtheirdulleyesatthatcold，vibrantscream，theworld-widecallformen。Itstirredthemlikethenoteofatrumpet；justasithadoftenstirredthemanwhowascominghometonight，inhisboyhood。
Thenightexpressshot，redasarocket，fromouttheeastwardmarshlandsandwoundalongtherivershoreunderthelonglinesofshiveringpoplarsthatsentineledthemeadows，theescapingsteamhangingingraymassesagainstthepaleskyandblottingouttheMilkyWay。Inamomenttheredglarefromtheheadlightstreamedupthesnow-coveredtrackbeforethesidingandglitteredonthewet，blackrails。Theburlymanwiththedisheveledredbeardwalkedswiftlyuptheplatformtowardtheapproachingtrain，uncoveringhisheadashewent。Thegroupofmenbehindhimhesitated，glancedquestioninglyatoneanother，andawkwardlyfollowedhisexample。Thetrainstopped，andthecrowdshuffleduptotheexpresscarjustasthedoorwasthrownopen，thesparemanintheG。A。B。suitthrustinghisheadforwardwithcuriosity。
Theexpressmessengerappearedinthedoorway，accompaniedbyayoungmaninalongulsterandtravelingcap。
“AreMr。Merrick’sfriendshere？“inquiredtheyoungman。
Thegroupontheplatformswayedandshuffleduneasily。
PhilipPhelps，thebanker，respondedwithdignity:“Wehavecometotakechargeofthebody。Mr。Merrick’sfatherisveryfeebleandcan’tbeabout。“
“Sendtheagentouthere，“growledtheexpressmessenger，“andtelltheoperatortolendahand。“
Thecoffinwasgotoutofitsroughboxanddownonthesnowyplatform。Thetownspeopledrewbackenoughtomakeroomforitandthenformedaclosesemicircleaboutit，lookingcuriouslyatthepalmleafwhichlayacrosstheblackcover。Noonesaidanything。Thebaggagemanstoodbyhistruck，waitingtogetatthetrunks。Theenginepantedheavily，andthefiremandodgedinandoutamongthewheelswithhisyellowtorchandlongoilcan，snappingthespindleboxes。TheyoungBostonian，oneofthedeadsculptor’spupilswhohadcomewiththebody，lookedabouthimhelplessly。Heturnedtothebanker，theonlyoneofthatblack，uneasy，stoop-shoulderedgroupwhoseemedenoughofanindividualtobeaddressed。
“NoneofMr。Merrick’sbrothersarehere？“heaskeduncertainly。
Themanwiththeredheardforthefirsttimesteppedupandjoinedthegroup。“No，theyhavenotcomeyet；thefamilyisscattered。Thebodywillbetakendirectlytothehouse。“Hestoopedandtookholdofoneofthehandlesofthecoffin。
“Takethelonghillroadup，Thompson——itwillbeeasieronthehorses，“calledtheliverymanastheundertakersnappedthedoorofthehearseandpreparedtomounttothedriver’sseat。
Laird，thered-beardedlawyer，turnedagaintothestranger:
“Wedidn’tknowwhethertherewouldbeanyonewithhimornot，“
heexplained。“It’salongwalk，soyou’dbettergoupinthehack。“Hepointedtoasingle，batteredconveyance，buttheyoungmanrepliedstiffly:“Thankyou，butIthinkIwillgoupwiththehearse。Ifyoudon’tobject，“turningtotheundertaker，“I’llridewithyou。“
Theyclamberedupoverthewheelsanddroveoffinthestarlighttipthelong，whitehilltowardthetown。Thelampsinthestillvillagewereshiningfromunderthelow，snow-burdenedroofs；andbeyond，oneveryside，theplainsreachedoutintoemptiness，peacefulandwideasthesoftskyitself，andwrappedinatangible，whitesilence。
Whenthehearsebackeduptoawoodensidewalkbeforeanaked，weatherbeatenframehouse，thesamecomposite，ill-definedgroupthathadstooduponthestationsidingwashuddledaboutthegate。
Thefrontyardwasanicyswamp，andacoupleofwarpedplanks，extendingfromthesidewalktothedoor，madeasortofricketyfootbridge。Thegatehungononehingeandwasopenedwidewithdifficulty。Steavens，theyoungstranger，noticedthatsomethingblackwastiedtotheknobofthefrontdoor。
Thegratingsoundmadebythecasket，asitwasdrawnfromthehearse，wasansweredbyascreamfromthehouse；thefrontdoorwaswrenchedopen，andatall，corpulentwomanrushedoutbareheadedintothesnowandflungherselfuponthecoffin，shrieking:“Myboy，myboy！Andthisishowyou’vecomehometome！“
AsSteavensturnedawayandclosedhiseyeswithashudderofunutterablerepulsion，anotherwoman，alsotall，butflatandangular，dressedentirelyinblack，dartedoutofthehouseandcaughtMrs。Merrickbytheshoulders，cryingsharply:“Come，come，Mother；youmustn’tgoonlikethis！“Hertonechangedtooneofobsequioussolemnityassheturnedtothebanker:“Theparlorisready，Mr。Phelps。“
Thebearerscarriedthecoffinalongthenarrowboards，whiletheundertakerranaheadwiththecoffin-rests。Theyboreitintoalarge，unheatedroomthatsmelledofdampnessanddisuseandfurniturepolish，andsetitdownunderahanginglampornamentedwithjinglingglassprismsandbeforea“Rogersgroup“
ofJohnAldenandPriscilla，wreathedwithsmilax。HenrySteavensstaredabouthimwiththesickeningconvictionthattherehadbeensomehorriblemistake，andthathehadsomehowarrivedatthewrongdestination。Helookedpainfullyaboutovertheclover-greenBrussels，thefatplushupholstery，amongthehand-paintedchinaplaquesandpanels，andvases，forsomemarkofidentification，forsomethingthatmightonceconceivablyhavebelongedtoHarveyMerrick。Itwasnotuntilherecognizedhisfriendinthecrayonportraitofalittleboyinkiltsandcurlshangingabovethepianothathefeltwillingtoletanyofthesepeopleapproachthecoffin。
“Takethelidoff，Mr。Thompson；letmeseemyboy’sface，“
wailedtheelderwomanbetweenhersobs。ThistimeSteavenslookedfearfully，almostbeseechinglyintoherface，redandswollenunderitsmassesofstrong，black，shinyhair。Heflushed，droppedhiseyes，andthen，almostincredulously，lookedagain。Therewasakindofpoweraboutherface——akindofbrutalhandsomeness，even，butitwasscarredandfurrowedbyviolence，andsocoloredandcoarsenedbyfiercerpassionsthatgriefseemednevertohavelaidagentlefingerthere。Thelongnosewasdistendedandknobbedattheend，andthereweredeeplinesoneithersideofit；herheavy，blackbrowsalmostmetacrossherforehead；herteethwerelargeandsquareandsetfarapart——teeththatcouldtear。Shefilledtheroom；themenwereobliterated，seemedtossedaboutliketwigsinanangrywater，andevenSteavensfelthimselfbeingdrawnintothewhirlpool。
Thedaughter——thetall，rawbonedwomanincrepe，withamourningcombinherhairwhichcuriouslylengthenedherlongfacesatstifflyuponthesofa，herhands，conspicuousfortheirlargeknuckles，foldedinherlap，hermouthandeyesdrawndown，solemnlyawaitingtheopeningofthecoffin。Nearthedoorstoodamulattowoman，evidentlyaservantinthehouse，withatimidbearingandanemaciatedfacepitifullysadandgentle。
Shewasweepingsilently，thecornerofhercalicoapronliftedtohereyes，occasionallysuppressingalong，quiveringsob。
Steavenswalkedoverandstoodbesideher。
Feeblestepswereheardonthestairs，andanoldman，tallandfrail，odorousofpipesmoke，withshaggy，unkeptgrayhairandadingybeard，tobaccostainedaboutthemouth，entereduncertainly。Hewentslowlyuptothecoffinandstood，rollingabluecottonhandkerchiefbetweenhishands，seemingsopainedandembarrassedbyhiswife’sorgyofgriefthathehadnoconsciousnessofanythingelse。
“There，there，Annie，dear，don’ttakeonso，“hequaveredtimidly，puttingoutashakinghandandawkwardlypattingherelbow。Sheturnedwithacryandsankuponhisshoulderwithsuchviolencethathetotteredalittle。Hedidnotevenglancetowardthecoffin，butcontinuedtolookatherwithadull，frightened，appealingexpression，asaspaniellooksatthewhip。
Hissunkencheeksslowlyreddenedandburnedwithmiserableshame。Whenhiswiferushedfromtheroomherdaughterstrodeafterherwithsetlips。Theservantstoleuptothecoffin，bentoveritforamoment，andthenslippedawaytothekitchen，leavingSteavens，thelawyer，andthefathertothemselves。Theoldmanstoodtremblingandlookingdownathisdeadson’sface。
Thesculptor’ssplendidheadseemedevenmorenobleinitsrigidstillnessthaninlife。Thedarkhairhadcreptdownuponthewideforehead；thefaceseemedstrangelylong，butinittherewasnotthatbeautifulandchastereposewhichweexpecttofindinthefacesofthedead。Thebrowsweresodrawnthatthereweretwodeeplinesabovethebeakednose，andthechinwasthrustforwarddefiantly。Itwasasthoughthestrainoflifehadbeensosharpandbitterthatdeathcouldnotatoncewhollyrelaxthetensionandsmooththecountenanceintoperfectpeace——
asthoughhewerestillguardingsomethingpreciousandholy，whichmightevenyetbewrestedfromhim。
