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!"