When they had all gone and left him he bowed his head with a bitter cry.
"Oh, Golden, my lost, little darling, only six feet of earth between us, and yet I shall never see you, speak to you, nor hear you again!"
A low, respectful cough interrupted the mournful tenor of his thoughts.
He glanced up and saw the old grave-digger leaning on his spade and regarding him wistfully.
"What are you waiting for, my man?" he inquired, feeling impatient at this seeming intrusion on his grief.
"If you please, sir, I have not yet finished throwing up the earth and shaping the mound," said the man, with some embarrassment.
A bitter cry came from Bertram Chesleigh's lips.
"What! would you bury her still deeper from my sight?" he cried. "Oh, rather throw off this heavy covering of earth and suffer me to look upon my darling one again."
The man stared at him half fearfully.
"Oh, sir, your sorrow has almost crazed you," he said. "You had better return to your friends and leave me here to finish my necessary work."