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The Sexton's Cottage
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A wild-looking little black cat jumped on his knee as he spoke. He patted it as one pats a child to make it go to sleep: he seemed to me patting down the sod upon a grave--patting it lovingly, with an inward lullaby.
"Here is one of Mara's kittens!" he said to his wife: "will you give it something and put it out? she may want it!"
The woman took it from him gently, gave it a little piece of bread, and went out with it, closing the door behind her.
"How then am I to make use of your hospitality?" I asked.
"By accepting it to the full," he answered.
"I do not understand."
"In this house no one wakes of himself."
"Because no one anywhere ever wakes of himself. You can wake yourself no more than you can make yourself."
"Then perhaps you or Mrs. Raven would kindly call me!" I said, still nowise understanding, but feeling afresh that vague foreboding.
"How dare I then go to sleep?" I cried.
"If you would have the rest of this house, you must not trouble yourself about waking. You must go to sleep heartily, altogether and outright." My soul sank within me.
The sexton sat looking me in the face. His eyes seemed to say, "Will you not trust me?" I returned his gaze, and answered,
"Then come," he said; "I will show you your couch."
As we rose, the woman came in. She took up the candle, turned to the inner door, and led the way. I went close behind her, and the sexton followed.
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