From his window he had a clear view of Mrs. Dawson's house. There was
a group of people in their best clothes on the porch, and considerable
activity about the front yard, to the fence of which a goodly number of
horses and mules were hitched. The little church, with its gray,
weather-beaten spire, could also be seen farther away, on a slight
elevation. It had a fence around it, and blended with the whiteness of
the fence were a few gravestones.

About eleven o'clock Westerfelt saw a negro boy climb a ladder leaning
against the side of the church and creep along the edge of the roof to
the open cupola and grasp the clapper of the cast-iron bell. Then it
began to toll. The boy was an unpractised hand, and the strokes were
irregular, sometimes too slow and sometimes too rapid.

It was a signal for the procession to leave the house. Westerfelt's
eyes were glued to the one-horse wagon at the gate, for it contained
the coffin, and was moving like a thing alive. Behind it walked six
men, swinging their hats in their hands. Next followed Slogan's
rickety buggy with its threatening wheels, driven by Peter. The bent
figure of the widow in black sat beside him. Other vehicles fell in
behind, and men, women, and children on foot, carrying wild flowers,
dogwood blossoms, pink and white honeysuckle, and bunches of violets,
brought up the rear.

Westerfelt was just turning from the window, unable to stand the sight
longer, when he saw Abner Lithicum's new road-wagon, with its red
wheels and high green bed, in which sat the five women of his family,
pause at his gate. Going out on the veranda, Westerfelt saw Abner
coming up the walk, cracking his wagon-whip at the stunted rose-bushes.