I never fully realised until this morning what a supreme triumph it is, having grown old, to merit the respect of those who know us best.  Mere greatness offers no reward to compare with it, for greatness compels that homage which we freely bestow upon goodness.  So long as I live I shall never forget this morning.  I stood in the door-yard outside of the open window of the old doctor’s home.  It was soft, and warm, and very still—­a June Sunday morning.  An apple tree not far off was still in blossom, and across the road on a grassy hillside sheep fed unconcernedly.  Occasionally, from the roadway where the horses of the countryside were waiting, I heard the clink of a bit-ring or the low voice of some new-comer seeking a place to hitch.  Not half those who came could find room in the house:  they stood uncovered among the trees.  From within, wafted through the window, came the faint odour of flowers, and the occasional minor intonation of someone speaking—­and finally our own Scotch Preacher!  I could not see him, but there lay in the cadences of his voice a peculiar note of peacefulness, of finality.  The day before he died Dr. North had said: 

“I want McAlway to conduct my funeral, not as a minister but as a man.  He has been my friend for forty years; he will know what I mean.”

The Scotch Preacher did not say much.  Why should he?  Everyone there knew:  and speech would only have cheapened what we knew.  And I do not now recall even the little he said, for there was so much all about me that spoke not of the death of a good man, but of his life.  A boy who stood near me—­a boy no longer, for he was as tall as a man—­gave a more eloquent tribute than any preacher could have done.  I saw him stand his ground for a time with that grim courage of youth which dreads emotion more than a battle:  and then I saw him crying behind a tree!  He was not a relative of the old doctor’s; he was only one of many into whose deep life the doctor had entered.

They sang “Lead, Kindly Light,” and came out through the narrow doorway into the sunshine with the coffin, the hats of the pallbearers in a row on top, and there was hardly a dry eye among us.

And as they came out through the narrow doorway, I thought how the Doctor must have looked out daily through so many, many years upon this beauty of hills and fields and of sky above, grown dearer from long familiarity—­which he would know no more.  And Kate North, the Doctor’s sister, his only relative, followed behind, her fine old face gray and set, but without a tear in her eye.  How like the Doctor she looked:  the same stern control!

In the hours which followed, on the pleasant winding way to the cemetery, in the groups under the trees, on the way homeward again, the community spoke its true heart, and I have come back with the feeling that human nature, at bottom, is sound and sweet.  I knew a great deal before about Doctor North, but I knew it as knowledge, not as emotion, and therefore it was not really a part of my life.