Read it through once

I remember the old woman well. She was so weak that she could not stand, and she lay upon a pallet in the servants' hall. All that night she lay muttering to herself in a language which I did not understand; but once or twice she raised her head, and looked with a sort of fixed, half-holy, half-demonic expression at the pictures on the walls. In the morning she was dead. My mother had her buried in the garden near the yew-tree; and though the neighbours said that it was more seemly to carry the corpse to the churchyard, my mother thought otherwise.