Sophie did not seem to have heard: she went on with her reading. I looked out. Two men were in the church-yard: one held a measuring-line in his hand, the other a spade. The one with the spade went on to mark the hard winter-beaten turf,—the knotted grass he cut through. I saw him describe the outline of a grave,—the other standing there, silently looking on. When the grave was marked, the one wielding the spade looked up at the silent looker-on, who bowed his head, as if to say, "It is right." Then he began to strike deeper, to hit the stones under the sod.
"What is it?" asked Sophie, looking up, for now she heard.
"I think it's Mrs. Axtell's grave that is to be made," I said.
Sophie came to the window.
"It's a wonder he don't make it himself."
"Who make it?"
"Why, Abraham Axtell. Look now,—see him look at it. It would be very like him. He's fond of such doleful things. He has a way of haunting the Church-yard. Aaron sees him there sometimes on moonlight nights."
Even while she spoke, Mr. Axtell did take the spade from the man; and striking down deeper, stronger than he, he rolled out stones, and the yellow, hard earth, crusty with the frost not yet out of it.
"There! I thought he would. Just watch now, and see of how much use that man is; he might as well be away," exclaimed Sophie.
We two watched the other two in yonder church-yard, until the pile of earth grew so high that it half-concealed them. Two or three times the man seemed to offer to take the spade from Mr. Axtell, but he kept it and worked away. At last the excavation grew so deep that one must needs go down into it to make it deeper. Would Mr. Axtell go? We watched to see. Sophie said "Yes" to the question; I thought "No." There grew a pause. Mr. Axtell stopped in his work, looked at the man, and must have spoken; for he picked up his coat and walked away.