Now a new inscription would be added.
“Roger Ingleton, son of the above-named Paul Ingleton, who died January 10, 1885.”
And when that was added, there would yet be space for another name below.
Roger shuddered a little, and brought his mind back with an effort to the solemn act which was taking place.
The clergyman’s voice ceased, and the fatherless lad stooped to get a last view of the flower-covered coffin. Then, with a heart lonelier than he had ever known it before, he turned away.
The people fell back and made a silent lane for him to pass.
“Poor lad,” said a country wife, as she looked after him, “pity knows, he’ll be this way again before long.”
“Hold thy tongue,” said another; “thee’d look white and shaky if thee was the only man of thy name left on earth—eh, Uncle Hodder?”
“Let un go,” said the venerable proprietor of the tutor’s borrowed horse last week, “let ’un go. The Ingletons was all weaklings, but they held out to nigh on threescore and ten years. All bar the best of them—there was naught weak about him, yet he dropped off in blossom-time.”
“Ay, ay, poor lad,” said the elder of the women in a whisper, “pity of the boy. He’d have taken the load on his shoulders to-day better than yonder white child.”