They went to work to make her coffin at noon. An unused walnut log of burled fibre had been lying in the sun and drying for two years, since Tom had built the furniture for the cabin. Dennis helped him rip the boards from this dark, rich wood, shape and plane it for the pieces he would need.
The Boy sat with dry eyes and aching heart, making the wooden nails to fasten these boards together.
He stopped suddenly, walked to the bench at which his father was working and laid by his side the first pins he had whittled.
"I can't do it, Pa," he gasped. "I just can't make the nails for her coffin. I feel like somebody's drivin' 'em through my heart!"
The rugged face was lighted with tenderness as he slowly answered:
"Why, we must make it, Boy—hit's the last thing we kin do ter show our love fur her—ter make it all smooth an' purty outen this fine dark wood. Yer wouldn't put her in the ground an' throw the cold dirt right on her face, would you?"
The slim figure shivered:
"No—no—I wouldn't do that! Yes, I'll help—we must make it beautiful, mustn't we?"
And then he went back to the pitiful task.
They dug her grave, these loving hands, father and son and orphan waif, on a gentle hill in the deep woods. As the sun sank in a sea of scarlet clouds next day, they lowered the coffin. The father lifted his voice in a simple prayer and the Boy took his sister's hand and led her in silence back to the lonely cabin. He couldn't stay to see them throw the dirt over her. He couldn't endure it.