with farmers from the whole March Mere
Estate; friends from Silverdale and Grammoch-town; and nearly every
soul in Wastrel-dale, come to show their sympathy for the living and
reverence for the dead.

At last the end came in the wet dreariness of the little churchyard, and
slowly the mourners departed, until at length were left only the parson,
the Master, and Owd Bob.

The parson was speaking in rough, short accents, digging nervously
at the wet ground. The other, tall and gaunt, his face drawn and
half-averted, stood listening. By his side was Owd Bob, scanning his
master's countenance, a wistful compassion deep in the sad gray eyes;
while close by, one of the parson's terriers was nosing inquisitively in
the wet grass.

Of a sudden, James Moore, his face still turned away, stretched out a
hand. The parson, broke off abruptly and grasped it. Then the two men
strode away in opposite directions, the terrier hopping on three legs
and shaking the rain off his hard coat.

* * * * *

David's steps sounded outside. M'Adam rose from his knees. The door of
the house opened, and the boy's feet shuffled in the passage.

"David!" the little man called in a tremulous voice.

He stood in the half-light, one hand on the table, the other clasping
the picture. His eyes were bleared, his thin hair all tossed, and he was
shaking.

"David," he called again; "I've somethin' I wush to say to ye!"

The boy burst into the room. His face was stained with tears and rain;
and the new black coat was wet and slimy all down the front, and on the
elbows were green-brown, muddy blots. For, on his way home, he had flung
himself down in the Stony Bottom just as he was, heedless of the wet
earth and his father's coat, and, lying on his face thinking of
that second mother lost to him, had wept his heart out in a storm of
passionate grief.

Now he stood defiantly, his hand upon the door.

"What d'yo' want?"

The little man looked from him to the picture in his hand.

"Help me, Flora--he'll no," he prayed. Then raising his eyes, he began:
"I'd like to say--I've bin thinkin'--I think I should tell ye--it's no
an easy thing for a man to say--"

He broke off short. The self-imposed task was almost more than he could
accomplish.

He looked appealingly at David. But there was no glimmer of
understanding in that white, set countenance.

"O God, it's maist mair than I can do!" the little man muttered; and the