towards that room. "You go and harness the mare, and I'll get Bill."
He left the house and went through the orchard. Moisture from the bare limbs dripped on his head. He knocked at the door of the shack, a heavy, resounding knock. Bill appeared in the door, frightened, hollow-cheeked; an insufferable heat and stuffiness came from within.
"Go for the doctor," said Derek, shortly. "The little boy is dead."
Back through the orchard, under the drip of the quickening trees, back in the house.
Once more in the chair before the hearth, twisting his hands together. Buckskin, oh, Buck!
The doctor came. He was a nice fellow, sympathetic. He was terribly sorry. He was the coroner, too. He gave Derek the certificate of natural death and a permit to bury the child at Grimstone. Derek would not have him put in that desolate little graveyard where Solomon Sharroe lay. He wanted him near him.
Hobbs came. Amazingly sympathetic. Tears in his eyes. He brought a bunch of daffodils to lay on the little coffin. You could have knocked him down with a feather when he heard it. Would he let the Jerrolds know? They might not hear until after—No, no, for God's sake, no. All he wanted was to be left alone.
Mrs. Machin came. She had buried her sister two days before and was now ready to take up the reins at Grimstone. She bathed the child and prepared him for burial. A little coffin was brought from Brancepeth.
After the lamps were lighted Mrs. Machin and Newbigging sat together in the kitchen. The sailor's tongue was running, doubtless about his adventures in China. Derek now sat in state alone. He had not looked at the newspaper that day, so he got it and spread it out on the table
