to her. The man looked at her in astonishment and did not move.
"Did you hear me?" she said. "I want that preacher to come here."
This time there was no mistaking the meaning of her request. The man went at once upon his errand, and the clergyman responded promptly to the summons.
She put aside her veil that he might see her face and know that she was in earnest. The bearers, waiting to perform their final service for John Bradley, looked at her in amazement. Others stared and wondered. Stephen Lamar, standing at the side of the grave, scowled in open disapproval.
Was she, after all, to belie his eloquent defense of a churchless funeral, yield to unreasoning custom, and have a preacher commit her husband's body to the earth? It was unbelievable.
"I have changed my mind," she said to the minister. "I wish you to speak at this burial, not as a preacher, but as a friend of John Bradley's and mine. I don't want anything said that's religious; just something that's comforting, that I can take home with me."
It was a strange request. How could a minister of the Church, with the inheritance of nineteen centuries upon him, stand by an open grave and commit the body of a human being to its shelter, and avoid all reference to that which alone had power to rob death of its sting and the grave of its victory? But the rector of Christ Church was quick in emergencies. He did not hesitate now, in either thought or deed. He directed the bearers to proceed with their task, and, as the coffin descended, he gathered up a handful of fresh earth from the mound at his side and scattered it into the open pit.
"Earth to earth—ashes to ashes—dust to dust."
As the last word left his lips the coffin found its resting place on the bed of the grave. He held up his hand while the people around him stood awed and expectant. His voice was clear and resonant as he spoke:
