The mother followed, looking straight before her—a strange, high-colored, set face, the tightly shut jaw making hard lines in the lower cheek-curves. The meager preacher came after with a book in his hand, and Dorothy followed.
In the woods Joe stumbled once, and a moment after set down his strange burden and wrung his hurt finger. Then he went on again into the deeper woodland, and about two hundred yards from the house stopped and set the box on a level stump. Before them were two crumbled mounds of earth, and beyond a small open grave, not over-deep.
The clergyman came forward.
“I might put it in?” said Joe, interrogatively.
“Yes,” said Dorothy. “Let me help.” And, taking the coffin at each end, they let it down, for the grave was shallow.
“Them roots is in the way; they bothered me when I was a-diggin’,” said Joe.
“Hush!” exclaimed Dorothy. “Hush!”
As they stood up, the minister went on to read his simple burial service. Susan Colkett paid, or seemed to pay, intense attention. At last he ceased, and all stood still a moment in the deep wood-shadows, for the twilight was near at hand. There was a little stir as Dorothy took from her handkerchief a handful of roses and let them fall into the open grave. Susan looked at her a moment, and then, turning to the preacher, said, coldly:
“Is that all of it? I don’t want none left out.”
“Yes.”