I. Who was it said he was dead?
II. Can a man be made to pay for his own grave being dug when he refuses to occupy it?
III. And what is to become of the mourning anyhow?
XII
Just a Little Piece of Griskin
I was reminded of the funeral when I arrived at the valley station one spring morning, by the fact that it was “the remains” who opened the carriage door for me and helped us out with our things.
He was home for a few days’ leave, looking very smart and upright in his uniform; and he saluted (even though he permitted himself to smile) when I gave him a half-crown, telling him to buy himself a wreath.
The white-painted garden gate had been placed wide open by way of welcome. We had left behind us, in town, weather that called itself the end of March, but in reality ought to have been January; we arrived at the little cottage to find that the calendar had taken a leap forward, for here it was like the end of April. On the grey stone walls beside the gate clumps of wallflowers were in bloom—masses of pale primrose flowers mixed with those of a rich rose-purple variety; only these two sorts had been planted in the chinks of this particular wall. I am sure the dear things nodded at us as we entered.