A few locust trees shed their remaining
small yellow leaves on the sunken graves, which were surrounded by
crumbling wooden enclosures. Here and there, farther off, a flat
tombstone was still visible in the tall grass; and over the dust of old
Jonathan Gay a high marble cross, selected by his brother's widow, bore
the words, unstained by the dripping trees, and innocent of satire:
"Here lieth in the hope of a joyful resurrection---"
At the end of the service there was a rustle either of relief or
disappointment, and the congregation filed slowly through the south
doors, where the old grey horse stood resigned and expectant amid the
obliterated graves. Mrs. Gay, who had lingered in the walk to speak
to Mr. Mullen, raised her plaintive violet eyes to his face when he
appeared.
"You are always so comforting. I don't know how to thank you for helping
me," she murmured, and added impulsively to the little old woman at his
side, "Oh, what a blessing such a son must be to you!"
"Orlando's never given me a moment's worry in his life, ma'am--not even
when he was teething," replied Mrs. Mullen, who looked sharper and more
withered than ever in the broad daylight.
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