"But, aunt, the burial-service is beautiful."
"Don't approve of it!" said Aunt Nesbit.
"Why, you know, as Clayton isn't a minister, he would not feel like making an extempore prayer."
"Shows great looseness of religious principle," said Aunt Nesbit. "Don't approve of it!"
CHAPTER XII. EXPLANATIONS.
The golden arrows of the setting sun were shooting hither and thither through the pine woods, glorifying whatever they touched with a life not its own. A chorus of birds were pouring out an evening melody, when a little company stood around an open grave. With instinctive care for the feeling of the scene, Nina had arrayed herself in a black silk dress, and plain straw bonnet with black ribbon—a mark of respect to the deceased remembered and narrated by Tiff for many a year after.
Cripps stood by the head of the grave, with that hopeless, imbecile expression with which a nature wholly gross and animal often contemplates the symbols of the close of mortal existence. Tiff stood by the side of the grave, his white hat conspicuously draped with black crape, and a deep weed of black upon his arm. The baby, wrapped in an old black shawl, was closely fondled in his bosom, while the two children stood weeping bitterly at his side. The other side of the grave stood Mr. Carson and Mr. Clayton, while Milly, Harry, and several plantation slaves, were in a group behind.