Then they look towards Eppie.
She has to throw in the first handful of earth, and she knows it.
But there is a mist before her eyes that is not caused by tears, and a cold feeling at her heart that grief alone cannot account for; she stoops—she lifts a handful of earth. Now she staggers forward to the open grave and drops it in. She turns as if to go. But in turn reels for a moment, then sinks upon the long green sward.
The mourners hurry forward to raise her. Among them is the young village doctor.
Poor Eppie is laid on her back on the grass, a half-sunken baby’s grave forming a kind of pillow. Then the doctor bends over her and takes her wrist. He lifts an eyelid and speedily recloses it. Then he slowly rises.
“Dead?” says an old white-haired man. His name is Grant, and he is the same who advanced and spoke to Sandie on the pier.
“Dead?”
“Ay, dead, Mr. Grant. Her sorrows are all over, and it is perhaps as well.”
There were a few moments of silence. It is a terrible thing to stand thus in the presence of Death.
Then old Grant cleared his throat to speak.