They dug her grave, these loving hands, father and son and orphan waif,
on a gentle hill in the deep woods. As the sun sank in a sea of scarlet
clouds next day, they lowered the coffin. The father lifted his voice in
a simple prayer and the Boy took his sister's hand and led her in
silence back to the lonely cabin. He couldn't stay to see them throw
the dirt over her. He couldn't endure it.
[Illustration: "'Be a man among men for your mother's sake--'"]
He had heard of ghosts in graveyards, and he wondered vaguely if such
things could be true. He hoped it was. When the others were asleep, just
before day, he slipped noiselessly from his bed and made his way to her
grave.
The waning moon was shining in cold white splendor. The woods were
silent. He watched and waited and hoped with half-faith and half-fear
that he might see her radiant form rise from the dead.
A leaf rustled behind him and he turned with a thrill of awful joy. He
wasn't afraid. He'd clasp her in his arms if he could. With firm step
and head erect, eyes wide and nostrils dilated, he walked straight into
the shadows to see and know.
And there, standing in a spot of pale moonlight, stood his dog looking
up into his eyes with patient, loving sympathy. He hadn't shed a tear
since her death. Now the flood tide broke the barriers.
Pages:
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106