"Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all."

TENNYSON.

The funeral was very quiet. By Colonel Keith's considerate arrangement

the attendants met at Timber End, so that the stillness of the Parsonage

was not invaded, a measure the more expedient, as Alick was suffering

from a return of his old enemy, intermitting fever, and only was able to

leave his room in time to join the procession.

Many were present, for poor Bessie had been a general favourite, and her

untimely fate had stirred up feelings that had created her into a saint

upon earth; but there was no one whose token of respect she would have

more esteemed than Colonel Hammond's, who in all the bustle of the

remove to Edinburgh had found time to come to Bishopsworthy to do honour

to the daughter of his old commanding officer. A flush of gratitude came

over Alick's pale face when he became aware of his colonel's presence,

and when the choristers' hymn had pealed low and sweetly over the

tranquil meadows, and the mourners had turned away, Alick paused at the

Parsonage gate to hold out his hand, and bring in this one guest to hear

how near to Bessie's heart the father's Highland regiment had been in

all the wanderings of her last moments.

The visit was prolonged for nearly an hour, while recollections of

Alick's parents were talked over, and Rachel thought him more cheered

and gratified than by any other tribute that had been paid to his

sister. He was promised an extension of leave, if it were required on

account of Lord Keith's state, though under protest that he would have

the aguish fever as long as he remained overlooking the water meadows,

and did not put himself under Dr. M'Vicar. Through these meadows

Colonel Hammond meant to walk back to the station, and Alick and Rachel

conducted him far enough to put him into the right path, and in going

back again, they could not but go towards the stile leading to that

corner of the churchyard where the sexton had finished his work, and

smoothed the sods over that new grave.

Some one was standing at the foot--not the sexton--but a young man

bending as with an intolerable load of grief. Rachel saw him first, when

Alick was helping her down the step, and her start of dismay made him

turn and look round. His brow contracted, and she clutched his arm with

an involuntary cry of, "Oh, don't," but he, with a gesture that at once

awed and tranquillized her, unclasped her hold and put her back, while

he stepped forward.

She could hear every word, though his voice was low and deep with

emotion. "Carleton, if I have ever been harsh or unjust in my dealings

towards you, I am sorry for it. We have both had the saddest of all

lessons. May we both take it as we ought."




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