“I promise,” said Jeanie with simple solemnity, and drawing up her graceful figure to its full height, she, as if anxious to break off the subject, turned to get a wet towel, with which she wiped her mother’s face, “for,” as she remarked, “ye maun be decent when the folk come.” It was nigh noon before any of the visitors made their appearance. In the then unsettled state of the country news spread slowly even when messengers were sent out expressly to carry it. Everybody came that heard of the melancholy occurrence, for in those primitive days, when only the young and healthy inhabited this section of country, deaths were so rare that a funeral was regarded as an important event which nobody missed. Straggling in from different points they came in twos and threes, except the lumbering-party with whom the deceased had been connected, who appeared in a body marching up the creek, carrying the coffin--a rude box of unplaned boards--with Mr Palmer leading. Two features in the assemblage were noticeable, one being that hardly a man among them had a coat, the other the fewness of the women. The men, great brawny fellows in home-made shirts and pants fastened by belts, gathered in clusters in the clearing to exchange news and talk over the circumstances attending the event that had brought them together, while the women went into the house. The sun was sinking fast towards the west before the preparations necessary for the burial were completed. When the word went round that the grave was ready, one by one they fyled into the house to take a last look of the face of their late neighbor, after which the lid of the coffin was nailed down. There was no clergyman to be had at the time and among those present there was no one inclined, even if capable, to conduct religious services. If the solemn observances of such occasions were absent, those present had not come unprepared to maintain a custom which in those days was universal in Canada, and, for all the writer knows, may still be in the Mother Country--that of passing a glass of liquor before lifting the coffin. A man, with a jar in one hand and a tin cup in the other, went round the company, tendering the filled cup to each, which it would have been bad manners to refuse and which nearly all emptied before returning. When all out of doors had been helped, the man, a well-meaning, kindly fellow, stepped into the shanty to regale those inside. Thinking it good manners, he pressed to where Mrs Morison was sitting and, deliberately filling the cup to the brim, tendered it to her first. Mrs Morison gave him a piercing look. “What!” she exclaimed in a low voice, so emphasized by deep feeling that every word sunk into the minds of those present; “What! Do you ask me to take that which has murdered my husband?” “Take a taste, ma’am,” said the red-whiskered man, who was in the room, “it will do you good.”