Suddenly he saw before him the well-known figure of the old sexton of the village, busily occupied in digging a grave. The winter had passed away; it was now midsummer. The birds were singing in the trees, and from the far green meadows sounded the low of cattle, and the tinkling of sheep bells. Even the graveyard looked no longer desolate, for on many of the little hillocks bright flowers were springing into bloom and verdure, attesting the affection that outlived death, and decorating with living bloom the precincts of decay.
"My friend, for whom are you digging that grave?" asked Israel.
The sexton looked up from his work, but did not seem to recognize the spokesman.
"For a man that died last night; he is to be buried to-day."
"Methinks this haste is somewhat indecorous," said Israel Wurm.
"O, for the matter of that," said the sexton, "the sooner this fellow's out of the way the better. There's nobody to mourn for him."
"Is he a pauper, then?"
"O no! he was immensely rich."
"And had he no relations—no friends?"
"For relations, he had a nephew, who inherits all his property. The young dog will make the money fly, I tell you. As for friends, he had none. The poor dreaded him—the good despised him; for he was a hardhearted, selfish, griping man. In a word, he was a miser," said the sexton.