"
Ashurst held out his pouch. "Have a fill?"
The old man touched his hat again, and slowly filled an old clay pipe.
His eyes, looking upward out of a mass of wrinkles and hair, were still
quite bright.
"If yu don' mind, zurr, I'll zet down my leg's 'urtin' a bit today." And
he sat down on the mound of turf.
"There's always a flower on this grave. An' 'tain't so very lonesome,
neither; brave lot o' folks goes by now, in they new motor cars an'
things--not as 'twas in th' old days. She've a got company up 'ere.
'Twas a poor soul killed 'erself."
"I see!" said Ashurst. "Cross-roads burial. I didn't know that custom
was kept up."
"Ah! but 'twas a main long time ago. Us 'ad a parson as was very
God-fearin' then. Let me see, I've a 'ad my pension six year come
Michaelmas, an' I were just on fifty when t'appened. There's none livin'
knows more about et than what I du. She belonged close 'ere; same farm
as where I used to work along o' Mrs. Narracombe 'tes Nick Narracombe's
now; I dus a bit for 'im still, odd times."
Ashurst, who was leaning against the gate, lighting his pipe, left his
curved hands before his face for long after the flame of the match had
gone out.
Pages:
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310