The birds sang in the trees beyond--the bobolinks gushed in the meadows below.

But there was a little space of silence about the house.
In the large drawing-room, draped in cool-colored chintz, where once Gabriel Bennet and Abel Newt had seen Hope Wayne, on the table where books had lain like porcelain ornaments, lay a strange piece of furniture, long, and spreading at one end, smelling of new varnish, studded with high silver-headed nails, and with a lid.

It was lined with satin.

Yes, it was a casket.
The room was more formal, and chilly, and dim than ever.

Puffs of air crept through it as if frightened--frightened to death before they got out again.