“If we die here,” said Mildred, “Roger must too. What was the matter with him just now, do you think? Was he thinking about that?”
“He was very miserable about something. Oh, Mildred, do look! Did you ever see Geordie look sweeter? Yes, you may have him now.”
And Oliver quietly laid the child in Mildred’s arms. “Yet,” said he, sighing, “we must bury him.”
“Oh, when?” asked Mildred.
“Better do it while his face looks as it does now. To-morrow is Sunday. We will do no work to-morrow, and bury Geordie.”
“Where? How?”
“We will choose the prettiest place we can find, and the quietest.”
“I wish the pastor was here,” said Mildred. “I never saw a funeral, except passing one in the road sometimes.”
“We need not be afraid of doing wrong about the funeral, dear. We must make some kind of little coffin; and Roger will help me to dig a grave, and if we have no pastor to say prayers, you and I know that in our hearts we shall be thanking God for taking our little brother to be safe and happy with him.”
“And then I may plant some flowers upon his grave, may not I? And that will bring the bees humming over it. How fond he was of going near the hives, to hear the bees hum! Where shall his grave be?”