And Clay, he--Oh, the po' motherless thing--I cain't talk abort it--I cain't bear to talk about it." Clay had disappeared from the door; but he came in, now, and the neighbors reverently fell apart and made way for him.

He leaned upon the open coffin and let his tears course silently.

Then he put out his small hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the dead face lovingly.

After a bit he brought his other hand up from behind him and laid three or four fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent over and kissed the unresponsive lips time and time again, and then turned away and went out of the house without looking at any of the company.

The old lady said to Hawkins: "She always loved that kind o' flowers.