We carried him to the old home in the country, that he might lie by the side of the wife he had loved and wronged. A few friends met us at the wayside station, and followed in sad procession along the country road, that wound past farms and through woods, and at last up to the ascent where the quaint, old wooden church, black with the rains and snows of many years, stood among its silent graves. The little graveyard sloped gently towards the setting sun, and from it one could see, far on every side, the fields of grain and meadowland that wandered off over softly undulating hills to meet the maple woods at the horizon, dark, green, and cool. Here and there white farmhouses, with great barns standing near, looked out from clustering orchards.
Up the grass-grown walk, and through the crowding mounds, over which waves, uncut, the long, tangling grass, we bear our friend, and let him gently down into the kindly bosom of mother earth, dark, moist, and warm. The sound of a distant cowbell mingles with the voice of the last prayer; the clods drop heavily with heart-startling echo; the mound is heaped and shaped by kindly friends, sharing with one another the task; the long rough sods are laid over and patted into place; the old minister takes farewell in a few words of gentle sympathy; the brother and sister, with lingering looks at the two graves side by side, the old and the new, step into the farmer’s carriage, and drive away; the sexton locks the gate and goes home, and we are left outside alone.
Then we went back and stood by Nelson’s grave.
After a long silence Graeme spoke.
‘Connor, he did not grudge his life to me—and I think’—and here the words came slowly—‘I understand now what that means, “Who loved me and gave Himself for me.”’
Then taking off his hat, he said reverently, ‘By God’s help Nelson’s life shall not end, but shall go on. Yes, old man!’ looking down upon the grave, ‘I’m with you’; and lifting up his face to the calm sky, ‘God help me to be true.’
Then he turned and walked briskly away, as one might who had pressing business, or as soldiers march from a comrade’s grave to a merry tune, not that they have forgotten, but they have still to fight.
And this was the way old man Nelson came home.