"Only us two, sir."
"Conny," said the doctor, slowly, "I am afraid your father is dead."
Conny did not answer for a moment, but his thin brown face settled into a look of disappointment.
"He said he should die, sir, and nothing could save him, but I thought maybe if you came— Couldn't you try something? They brought Black Joe round when he'd been long in the water, and was dead and cold—brought him round with rubbing, and stuff they put in his mouth. Isn't there something in your box that'll do it?"
"Nothing," said the doctor; "he is quite dead, my boy. You had better come with me, and I will send some one to attend to your father."
But no persuasion could induce Conny to leave the cabin, and the doctor was forced to return without him. For a quiet man, the doctor was greatly excited over the mystery of the little cabin, but old Timothy said, coolly, "That would be Sandy McConnell: one o' the moonshiners: varmint, all on 'em."
"But, Timothy, some one must see that he has a decent burial, and if you'll take a couple of men with you, and go down there—"
"Wait till to-morrow morning," said Timothy, significantly. "The birds of the air 'tend to their own funerals."
A terrific storm that swept over the mountains that afternoon compelled the doctor to follow Timothy's advice. The next morning, when they succeeded, with much difficulty, in finding their way through the tangle, the cabin was empty of every trace of human occupancy, and almost seemed as if it might have been undisturbed since the wood-choppers abandoned it. Under a great pine, a few rods away, they found a new-made grave, carefully sodded, and bound over, in old-country fashion, with green withes.
"The moonshiners have buried him," said Timothy. "I told ye, sor, they'd see to their own funerals."