The girl rose and, still leaning on the coffin-lid, turned herself to the waiting people. There was a dazed look in her eyes, and her face was so white and drawn—so little like the face of “bonny Allie Bain”—that a sudden stir of wonder, and pain, and sympathy went through the throng. Her lips quivered a little as she met their sorrowful looks, and the minister hoped that the tears, which had been so long kept back, might come now to ease her heavy heart, and he laid his hand on hers to lead her away. Then a voice said:
“This is my place,” and Brownrig’s hand was laid upon the coffin where Allison’s head had lain.
At the sound of his voice a change passed over the girl’s face. It grew hard and stern; but she did not, by the slightest movement of eye or lip, acknowledge the men’s presence or his intent.
“Now,” said she, with a glance at those who were waiting. And with her face bowed down, but with a firm step, she “carried her father’s head” out of the house which was “to know him no more.” In breathless silence the friends and neighbours fell into their places, and she stood white and tearless gazing after them till the last of the long train had disappeared around the hill. Then she went slowly back toward the house. At the door she stopped and turned as if she were going away again. But she did not. When her aunt—her mother’s sister—put her hand on her shoulder, saying softly, “Allie, my woman,” she paused and put her arms round the old woman’s neck and burst into bitter weeping. But only for a little while. Her aunt would fain have spoken to her words which she knew must be said soon; but when she tried to do so, Allie held up her hand in entreaty.
“Wait, auntie. Wait a wee while—for oh! I am so spent and weary.”
“Yes, my dearie; yes, I ken weel, and you shall rest—but not there!—surely not there!”
For Allie had opened the door of the room where her father died and where his coffin had stood, where her mother had also suffered and died. She would not turn back. “She was tired and must rest a while and there was nowhere else.” And already, before she had ceased speaking, her head was on the pillow, and she had turned her face to the wall.
In the early morning of the next day the minister’s son, the returned wanderer, stood leaning over the wall which separated the manse garden from the kirkyard. He was looking at the spot where the grass waved green over the graves of his mother and his two brothers who slept beside her. As he stood, a hand touched his, and Allison Bain’s sorrowful eyes looked down upon him. Looked down, because the many generations of the dead had filled up the place, and the wall which was high on the side of the garden was low on the side of the kirkyard.
“The minister is not up yet?” she asked without a pause. “Was he over-wearied? I had something to say to him, but I might say it to you, if you will hear me?”