"No," said Myron, rising to her feet, and giving a helpless look around at the curious faces about her.
"What!" said Mrs. Wilson. "What, you'll lie in the very face of your dead child! Lay your hand on that coffin, Myron Holder, and then tell me if that ain't Homer's son!"
Myron sank by the coffin and flung her arms athwart it.
"He is not!" she cried. Then her long calm gave way, and she began to sob and cry. "He belongs to none of you; he is mine—my own baby—my own child—My—My!"
Mrs. Wilson left the house. Mr. Muir put aside the clinging arms and prepared the coffin for burial. Some one led Myron to a wagon and she got in.
Mr. Muir was not free from fears when they stopped at the paupers' corner of the graveyard. Myron looked around, half-dazed, when she alighted, and, touched Mr. Muir's arm.
"Why here?" she asked, pointing to the open grave. "Why not by father?"
"Your grandmother sold the other half of the lot," said Mr. Muir hastily.
Mrs. Deans watched the little scene with much inward satisfaction. Myron made no further sign, uttered no other word. The coffin was lowered into the grave.
Mr. Prew put up a prayer, in which petitions for the "child of sin" and the "sinful mother" were about equally balanced. The throng departed each to his own place. Old Humphries filled up the grave, and Myron was left alone.