"A' ready," Watty whispered back, and walking to the rear of the little party, he relieved the minister of Inverburn at the end of the coffin. Then slowly, and with measured tread, they moved on to the churchyard gate, up the broad walk, and across the turf to the new-made grave. The coffin was then laid gently down on the grass, and Watty, bending forward, read the name on the plate,
"GAVIN GRAY, AGED 17."
Meanwhile, Adam Hepburn had moved over to the open grave, and was gazing down upon the coffin, which contained the remains of his beloved, with a strange far-off expression on his face. They saw that he had forgotten himself and them, and after waiting a moment, David Gray stepped forward and lightly touched his arm.
"We wait for you, Adam," he said gently. "Will you take the cord at the feet with me?"
Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cord held out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself being at the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and when it grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned aside with a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful of earth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. "Earth to earth, dust to dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and what is our loss is the lad's great gain," he murmured half dreamily. Then he laid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged face a tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, with gentle force, "My son, come, let us go hence."
"Not yet; I will wait and help Watty," said Andrew Gray, in a hoarse whisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidly filling up the grave.
"I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here," said Hartrigge, with strange, deep bitterness. "Truly, I think, father, we had need soon to extend our burial space."
"Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have been permitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with his forbears," said the old man gently. "If the Lord will, may I be the next to be laid here in peace."
"We'd better get out o' this unless we be tired o' life," said Watty, grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on the eastern horizon. "If we dinna get clear off afore the daw'in', some o' the manse folk will be sure to see us."
Mindful of Watty's warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, and yet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them to the place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gently beat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son's loved resting place was blinded by unwonted tears.