"We wait for you, Adam," he said gently. "Will you take the cord at the feet with me?" Adam Hepburn started violently, and then stepping forward, took the cord held out to him; the minister of Inverburn and Hartrigge himself being at the head. Then very gently they lowered it into the grave, and when it grated upon the other, Adam Hepburn let go his hold, and turned aside with a deep groan. The minister of Inverburn took up a handful of earth, and let it fall loosely on the coffin lid. "Earth to earth, dust to dust, he has changed the corruptible for the incorruptible, and what is our loss is the lad’s great gain," he murmured half dreamily. Then he laid his hand on the arm of the bereaved father, over whose rugged face a tremor had passed, like the first wave of a great sea, adding, with gentle force, "My son, come, let us go hence." "Not yet; I will wait and help Watty," said Andrew Gray, in a hoarse whisper; but already Watty, with strong and willing arm, was rapidly filling up the grave. "I wonder whose murdered body will next lie here," said Hartrigge, with strange, deep bitterness. "Truly, I think, father, we had need soon to extend our burial space." "Do not speak so bitterly, my son. Let us be thankful that we have been permitted to give the dear lad honourable and Christian burial, with his forbears," said the old man gently. "If the Lord will, may I be the next to be laid here in peace." "We’d better get out o’ this unless we be tired o’ life," said Watty, grimly, pointing with his forefinger to the first streak of dawn on the eastern horizon. "If we dinna get clear off afore the daw’in’, some o’ the manse folk will be sure to see us." Mindful of Watty’s warning, they prepared to leave the churchyard, and yet they were fain to linger, for many hallowed memories bound them to the place. Ere he turned to go, Andrew Gray took up the spade and gently beat down the turf on the grave, and his last look at his son’s loved resting place was blinded by unwonted tears. "Watty," said Adam Hepburn, as they walked out to the road, "you had better come with us now, and let us see that boasted hiding of yours on the Douglas Water. If we are to remain in this district it will take a securer shelter than the cave at Hartrigge to hold us." "I’m willint eneuch to let ye see’t; but what if I be catched comin’ hame?" queried Watty, cautiously. "You can gather some grass on the roadside, and say you were seeking a bite for old Kirsty, if they question you," said Adam. "But you can easily be home by half six at the latest, unless indeed the place be all the farther up the water." "Na, na, it’s no’ that faur. Weel, I’ll just hide my pick and shovel in the hedge, and gang," answered Watty; so the little party once more turned their faces to Hartrigge, where the bereaved mother sat in her desolate house, like Rachel, weeping for her children, and refusing to be comforted.