The station at Regina, when they steamed into it, was crowded with folk, and gay with flags.  Anderson, after a conversation with the station-master, came to the car to say that the Governor-General, Lord Wrekin, who had been addressing a meeting at Regina, was expected immediately, to take the East-bound train; which was indeed already lying, with its steam up, on the further side of the station, the Viceregal car in its rear.

“But there are complications.  Look there!”

He pointed to a procession coming along the platform.  Six men bore a coffin covered with white flowers.  Behind it came persons in black, a group of men, and one woman; then others, mostly young men, also in mourning, and bare-headed.

As the procession passed the car, Anderson and Delaine uncovered.

Elizabeth turned a questioning look on Anderson.

“A young man from Ontario,” he explained, “quite a lad.  He had come here out West to a farm—­to work his way—­a good, harmless little fellow—­the son of a widow.  A week ago a vicious horse kicked him in the stable.  He died yesterday morning.  They are taking him back to Ontario to be buried.  The friends of his chapel subscribed to do it, and they brought his mother here to nurse him.  She arrived just in time.  That is she.”

He pointed to the bowed figure, hidden in a long crape veil.  Elizabeth’s eyes filled.

“But it comes awkwardly,” Anderson went on, looking back along the platform—­“for the Governor-General is expected this very moment.  The funeral ought to have been here half an hour ago.  They seem to have been delayed.  Ah! here he is!”

“Elizabeth!—­his Excellency!” cried Philip, emerging from the car.

“Hush!” Elizabeth put her finger to her lip.  The young man looked at the funeral procession in astonishment, which was just reaching the side of the empty van on the East-bound train which was waiting, with wide-open doors, to receive the body.  The bearers let down the coffin gently to the ground, and stood waiting in hesitation.  But there were no railway employes to help them.  A flurried station-master and his staff were receiving the official party.  Suddenly someone started the revival hymn, “Shall We Gather at the River?” It was taken up vigorously by the thirty or forty young men who had followed the coffin, and their voices, rising and falling in a familiar lilting melody, filled the station: 

     Yes, we’ll gather at the river,
     The beautiful, beautiful river—­
     Gather with the saints at the river,
     That flows by the throne of God!