"Please do not put yourself to that trouble," he protested; "if you will be good enough to direct me I shall be able to find it."
"You could not identify it," I said, "for there is no stone, but just a grassy mound, like many of the rest. Let me point it out to you, and then I will go on my way."
He made no further objection, but held the gate open for me to enter. There are no paths, and he protested again when he saw me plunge into the long, wet grass, but I laughed at his fears and led the way to the spot where all that was mortal of poor Farmer Brown lay beneath the sod.
"This is his grave," I said, and he thanked me with another courteous inclination of the head. As I turned to leave he asked a further question.
"Can you tell me if any of his people still live in this neighbourhood? I—I have a message for them."
"If you will call at my cottage," I replied, indicating the little house a stone's-throw away, "I will tell you all I know. Pray do not stay too long in the rain. You have no umbrella."
"Thank you," he said, "I shall take no harm, and I will call at your house shortly, as you are so very kind."
I left him, but I could not forbear looking from the window in Mother Hubbard's bedroom, and I could distinctly see him standing with head bent and uncovered in an attitude of deep dejection over his father's grave. I had no misgiving on that point. In spite of the thick moustache the likeness was too strong to admit of doubt.
I went into the studio and brought out the copy of Farmer Brown's portrait which I had retained, and placed it on the chest of drawers where he could hardly fail to see it; but I said nothing to Mother Hubbard, who was laying the cloth for tea. The kettle was boiling when he came in, and I fetched a third cup and saucer and invited him to the table.
I could see that reluctance struggled with desire, but Mother Hubbard's added entreaties turned the scale, and he removed his soaking overcoat with many apologies for the trouble he was causing.