Spring had come in the night. The world was full of joy. Ingratiating odours stole up from meadow and field. Forth from the lake leaped the hot bright sun and strode like a giant to his work. Sweet, hostile strains of rival birds rose upward to the sky. Everywhere, everywhere, the striving, shooting, leaping, singing upward; but for Buckskin the lying down in the dark earth beneath the walnut trees, the clasping of little hands, the shutting of gay, deep eyes, the folding of bright wings scarcely spread.
It was only six o'clock when Derek crossed the lawn to the green plot behind the apple-house where he had told Newbigging to dig the grave. He had chosen this spot because he had often thought that winter what a nice place it would be for the little chap to play on next summer. The grass here seemed especially fine; and it was starred in May by little blue-eyed flowers, and here the birds liked to hop about and sing. Then the smell of apples that came through the latticed window of the apple-house was sweet, very sweet.
Newbigging was not quite ready yet. He was digging so energetically that some of the loose soil flew against the sloping, moss-grown roof of the apple-house, and from there scattered to the ground. He looked up and wiped his brow.
"The ground's still haird," he said. "But I took all the sod off nicely and it can be laid back without a break."
"I'm glad of that," said Derek.
He watched Newbigging till the grave was ready, then he said, "Come. I want to get this over before anyone is about."
They returned to the house.
Mrs. Machin was waiting in the parlour. In her black bonnet and cape she was prepared to follow in decency to
