the grave, though she thought it heathenish that the child should not be laid in consecrated ground.
Nor would Derek have Mr. Ramsey sent for to read the burial service. The conception of Buckskin had been secret; their life together that winter had been secret; now, in death, let him strike his tent in secret and join his dark forbears without benefit of clergy.
But Derek took his uncle's large prayer-book from the bookcase and carried it to the graveside. Newbigging and he bore the light coffin between them. Mrs. Machin followed. A strange funeral procession. Their slow passage over the moist turf, was watched by heavy gulls swinging above in the warm April wind. The chime of the waves on the shore was Buckskin's knell.
In a low voice, but steady, Derek read the burial service, his head bent over the book, the wind tossing his fair hair. Newbigging stood with folded arms and legs apart, his tanned neck rising like a column out of his blue sailor's jersey. Mrs. Machin's face was set as she stared sorrowfully into the grave. The feather on her black bonnet kept up a nervous quivering.
"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out"—read Derek (not even Pegleg, he thought, lying discarded on the floor.) "The Lord gave (He gave this kind, too!) and the Lord hath taken away; (He took this kind to Himself, also) blessed be the name of the Lord."
The wind freshened; the chiming of the waves grew sweeter; the gulls swung above their heads. Derek read on: "Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, (a year, this man!) and is full of misery (misery? Oh, those mirthful, laughing eyes of his!). He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; (like a flower! Derek's voice
