At his touch her sobbing suddenly ceased, and she let her apron fall.
"Will ye na coome inside, Mr. Burkett?" she asked.
And they all three went in together.
The little room had been scrubbed and tidied, and a number of chairs, ranged round the table, blocked the floor.
"We've bin busy all marnin', gitting' things a bit smartened oop for t'inquest. T' coroner's cooming at twelve," the grandmother explained.
"Will ye coome oopstairs, Mr. Burkett—jest—jest to tak' a look at him?" Mrs. Matheson asked in a subdued voice.
Alec followed her, squeezing his burly frame up the narrow, creaking staircase.
The child lay on the clean, white bed. A look of still serenity slept on his pallid face. His tawny curls were smoothed back, and some snowdrops were scattered over the coverlet. All was quite simple.
Mrs. Matheson stood in the doorway, struggling noisily with her sobs.
"It is God's will," Alec said quietly.
"He was turned four last week," she blurted out. "Ye'll excuse me, Mr. Burkett, but I'm that overdone that I jest canna' help myself," and she sank into a chair.
He knelt by the dead child's side and prayed, while the slow rise and fall of the mother's sobs rilled the room. When he rose his eyes were all moist.
"God will help you, if you ask Him. His ways are secret. We cannot understand His purpose. But have faith in Him. He has done it for the best," he said.
"Ay, I know, I know, Mr. Burkett. But ye see he was the youngest, and that bonny———"
"Let
