Up to Wyvern House, after the funeral was over, went Harry. The old man, his hat in his hand, was bareheaded, on the steps; as he approached he nodded to his last remaining son. Three were gone now. A faint sunlight glinted on his old features; a chill northern air stirred his white locks. A gloomy, but noble image of winter the gaunt old man presented.
“Well, that’s over; where’s the lad buried?”
“Just where you wished, sir, near Vicar Maybell’s grave, under the trees.”
The old Squire grunted an assent.
“The neighbours was there, I dare say?”
“Yes, sir, all—I think.”
“I shouldn’t wonder—they liked Charlie—they did. He’s buried up there alone—well, he deserved it. Was Dobbs there, from Craybourne? He was good to Dobbs. He gave that fellow twenty pun’ once, like a big fool, when Dobbs was druv to the wall, the time he lost his cattle; he was there?”
“Yes, I saw Dobbs there, sir, he was crying.”
“More fool Dobbs—more fool he,” said the Squire, and then came a short pause; “cryin’ was he?”
“Yes, sir.”