"In that day when the earth shall give up its dead, and when the spirits of those that were in prison shall be free, may we know that the unfettered soul of this our brother has attained the fulfilment of the joys that were denied him here, but which, through all the ages, have awaited his coming into that sweet and blessed country where labor and patience and a conscience void of offense shall have their just and reasonable reward. Amen!"
He stepped aside, the lowering straps were pulled harshly up, and the first spadeful of earth fell, with that hollow and gruesome sound which is like none other, on the narrow house in which the body of John Bradley lay.
Up to this moment, whatever her sorrow at her husband's death may have been, no one had seen Mary Bradley weep. But she was weeping now. Something in the preacher's words, or in his voice or manner, had touched the well-spring of her emotion, and had brought to her eyes tears which she made no effort to restrain.
She reached out her hand to the clergyman in a grateful clasp, but she said nothing, and, before he could speak to her a single word of comfort or consolation, she entered her coach and was driven away.
"It was a decent funeral," commented one of the toilers, as he shuffled slowly down the path leading to the cemetery gate.
"It was that," responded the fellow-worker at his side. "A labor-leader at the house and a preacher at the grave. What more could the man ask?"
"An' not too much religion in it either. Religion don't fit the workin' man; an' this priest seemed to sense it an' cut it out, more credit to him. They say he's a devilish good preacher, too, an' stands up great for labor. I've a mind I'll go hear him next Sunday."
"I'll go with ye, Thomas."
"Come along. We'll go together."
