He felt shaken to his very soul by the ghastliness of the whole proceeding. Then suddenly the awkwardness of his own position, if by chance any one should find him there, rushed in upon his mind, and, without so much as another glance, he made off as quickly as he could in the opposite direction.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE HUT ON THE HEATH
"I'm glad it's all over," said the footman, waving a cigar stolen from the box of his master. "Funerals don't suit me."
"Yet we must all 'ave one of our own some day," said the cook, who was plainly under the influence of gin; "an' that pore Miss Sophy--me 'art bleeds for 'er!"
"An' she with 'er millions," growled a red-faced coachman. "Wot rot!"
"Come now, John, you know Miss Sophy was fond of her father"--this from a sprightly housemaid, who was trimming a hat.
"I dunno why," said John. "Master was as cold as ice, an' as silent as 'arf a dozen graves."
The scullery-maid shuddered, and spread out her grimy hands.
"Oh, Mr. John, don't talk of graves, please! I've 'ad the nightmare over 'em."