They laid the dead villain gently and reverently in his grave. George took a handful of soil and scattered it over him.
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” said he, solemnly.
The other two looked down and sprinkled soil, too, and their anger and bitterness began to soften by the side of George and over the grave.
Then Jem felt in his pocket and produced something wrapped in silver paper.
“This belongs!” said he, with a horrible simplicity. “The farmer is too good for this world, but it is a good fault. There, farmer,” said he, looking to George for approbation as he dropped the little parcel into the grave. “After all,” continued Jem, good-naturedly, “it would have been very hard upon a poor fellow to wake up in the next world and not have what does belong to him to make an honest living with.”
The grave was filled in, and a little mound made at the foot of the tree. Then George took out his knife and began to cut the smooth bark.
“What now? Oh, I see. That is a good idea, George. Read them a lesson. Say in a few words how he came here to do a deed of violence and died himself—by the hand of Heaven.”
“Tom,” replied George, cutting away at the bark, “he is gone where he is sure to be judged; so we have no call to judge him. God Almighty can do that, I do suppose, without us putting in our word.”
“Well, have it your own way. I never saw the toad so obstinate before, Jem. What is he cutting, I wonder?”
The inscription, when finished, ran thus: