"He promised her when he was ten years old—the year she died—that he would be buried with her," said Nathan. "I happen to know that, Humphrey."
"Few keep their promises to the dead; but he's dead himself now. Burrow down—burrow down to her and put him there beside her—dust to dust. I take no stock in dust of any sort—not being a farmer. But his mother earned heaven, and if he didn't, her tears may float him in. To have bred an immortal soul, mark you, is something, even if it gets itself damned. The parent of a human creature be like God, for he's had a hand in the making of an angel or a devil."
"Shall we bring Mark back to-night, or shall the funeral start from the church?" asked Nathan.
They had now descended the hill and stood at Humphrey's gate.
"Don't worry his bones. Let him stop where he is till his bed's ready. I'm not coming to the funeral."
"Not coming!"
"No. I didn't go to my wife's, did I?"
"Yes, indeed you did, Humphrey."
"You're wrong there. A black hat with a weeper on it, and a coat, and a mourning hankercher was there—not me. Bury him, and toll his own bell for him, but for God's sake don't let any useful person catch their death of cold for him. Me and his mother—we'll mourn after our own fashion. Yes, her too: there are spirits moving here for the minute. In his empty room she was the night he finished it. Feeling about she was, as if she'd lost a threepenny piece in the bed-tick. I heard her. 'Let be!' I shouted from my chamber. 'The man's not there: he's dead—hanged hisself for love in the belfry. Go back where you come from. Belike he'll be there afore you, and, if not, they'll tell you where to seek him.'"
He turned abruptly and went in; then as his brother, dazed and bewildered, was about to hurry homeward, the elder again emerged and called to him.