“Where else did they go?”
“Why, they cut across the corner of the meadow lot, an’ below that they run through—”
“Well?”
“Through—oh, Gran’pap!”
The old man rose slowly to his feet again, as if impelled thereto by a dreadful thought.
“Dannie—the graveyard?”
“Yes, Gran’pap.”
The clay pipe which Abner Pickett had been smoking broke into a dozen pieces beneath the pressure of his clenched hand, and fell rattling to the floor. It was a full minute before he asked the next question.
“Dannie, how near—how near the grave?”
“Halfway between it and the road, Gran’pap.”