Reverently they placed him in the carriage which none cared to share with him. Carefully they wrapped around him the Stars and Stripes, and dropping the heavy curtains, followed through the streets to the cottage in the Hollow, which he had left so full of life and hope. Around that cottage there was a gathered multitude next day, and though on the unsheltered heads of those without, the driving rain was falling, they waited patiently while the prayer was said, and the funeral anthem chanted. Then there came a bustling moment,—people passing beneath the Star Spangled Banner, and pausing to look at the dead. There were sobs and tears, and words of fond regret, and then the coffin-lid was closed, and once more that muffled beat was heard, as with arms reversed the Rockland Guards marched up the walk, where, leaning upon their guns they stood, while strong men carried out their late companion, and placed him in the hearse, _the carriage sent for him_. There was no relative to go with him to the grave,—none in whose veins his blood was flowing, so Mr. Mather and Rose took the lead, followed by a promiscuous crowd of carriages and pedestrians, the very horses keeping time to the solemn music beaten by the drum, and played by the man in the jammed white hat. Slowly through the November rain,—through the November sleet, and through the November mist they bore him on through the streets which he so oft had trodden; on past the cottage he meant to buy for poor Annie, whispering to herself with every note of the tolling bell, “George has gone to Heaven.” Onward, still onward, till streets and cottage were left behind, and they came to where the marble columns, gleaming through the autumnal fog, told who peopled that silent yard. Just by the gate, the bearers paused, and stood with uncovered heads while the solemn words were uttered, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!” Then, when it was all over, the long procession moved through the spacious churchyard, past the tall monuments betokening worldly wealth; past the less imposing stones, whose lettering told of treasure in Heaven; past the group of cedar trees and pine; past the graves of the nameless dead, and so out upon the highway, Rose Mather starting in alarm as the band struck up a quicker, merrier march, whose stirring, jubilant notes seemed so much like mockery. She knew it was the custom, but the music grated none the less harshly, and drawing her veil over her face, she wept silently, occasionally glancing backward to the spot of freshly upturned earth where Rockland’s first soldier was buried,—the brave, self-denying George,—who gave all he had for his country, and died in her behalf.