“A better man did not live in Elmwood. He and his wife were prominently identified with every good work undertaken by the churches.”
“Church members, eh?”
“Yes. Like nearly all Scotchmen, Mackenzie was a profound Presbyterian of the strong foreordination faith. Yet he was always ready to join hands with the members of any Christian sect in doing deeds of good. You will see in this last tribute how great was the respect in which he was held.”
And what Nick saw during the funeral services went to confirm Dr. Abbott’s assertions.
The attendance was so large that the coffin was carried out under a large tree, near the front of the house, and there the funeral sermon was preached before several hundred neighbors, many of whom shed the tears of sincere sorrow.
The sermon was pronounced by everyone to be the most eloquent effort of the reverend speaker’s life. The subject, it was agreed, was an inspiration.
Nick’s attention was quietly divided between the widow and the dog. The widow’s face was hidden beneath a deep crape veil, and she seemed to weep silently and incessantly.
The dog did not simulate. He expressed no sorrow in his brute way, but to Nick’s practiced eye, the animal was plainly nonplussed. He walked around among the vast crowd, sniffing at everybody and peering up anxiously into the faces of all he passed.
“Rover is looking for his master,” silently commented Nick. “What a splendid assistant I have in that dog.”
After the services, the neighbors were dismissed. Only the undertaker, Dr. Abbott and a few chosen friends remained at the house.