“Father,” he says presently, as they are near to a clump of tall trees, “isn’t it just here where mother was laid?”
The rough weather-beaten old sailor uncovers his head.
He points to a spot of the canal that is gleaming bright in the rays of the morning sun.
“Just down there, dear boy,” he says. “The coffin was leaded; it could never rise.”
The last words are spoken apparently to himself, as he turns sadly away towards the trees.
Still holding Ransey’s hand, and with Babs in his arms, he points to the tallest, strongest tree of all. It is a beautiful beech.
And there, about eight feet from the ground, and evidently let deeply into the tree, is a small and lettered slab of marble.
The bark has begun to curl in a rough lip over its edge all round as if to hold it more firmly in its place.
POOR MARY.
She has gone on.
Feby. 19th—82.
The letters were not over-well formed. Perhaps they were cut by Tandy’s own hand. What mattered it? The little tablet was meant but for his eyes. Simplicity is best.