He liked her the more for this regal action, and therefore it enraged him.  Sheer anxiety lest he should succumb to her on the spot was what made him bluster as he strode off, and “That brat of a Grizel,” or “The Painted Lady’s most unbearable lassie,” or “The dour little besom” was his way of referring to her in company for days, but if any one agreed with him he roared “Don’t be a fool, man, she’s a wonder, she’s a delight,” or “You have a dozen yourself, Janet, but I wouldna neifer Grizel for the lot of them.”  And it was he, still denouncing her so long as he was contradicted, who persuaded the Auld Licht Minister to officiate at the funeral.  Then he said to himself, “And now I wash my hands of her, I have done all that can be expected of me.”  He told himself this a great many times as if it were a medicine that must be taken frequently, and Grizel heard from Tommy, with whom she had some strange conversations, that he was going about denouncing her “up hill and down dale.”  But she did not care, she was so—­so happy.  For a hole was dug for the Painted Lady in the cemetery, just as if she had been a good woman, and Mr. Dishart conducted the service in Double Dykes before the removal of the body, nor did he say one word that could hurt Grizel, perhaps because his wife had drawn a promise from him.  A large gathering of men followed the coffin, three of them because, as yon may remember, Grizel had dared them to stay away, but all the others out of sympathy with a motherless child who, as the procession started, rocked her arms in delight because her mamma was being buried respectably.

Being a woman, she could not attend the funeral, and so the chief mourner was Tommy, as you could see by the position he took at the grave, and by the white bands Grizel had sewn on his sleeves.  He was looking very important, as if he had something remarkable in prospect, but little attention was given him until the cords were dropped into the grave, and a prayer offered up, when he pulled Mr. Dishart’s coat and muttered something about a paper.  Those who had been making ready to depart swung round again, and the minister told him if he had anything to say to speak out.

“It’s a paper,” Tommy said, nervous yet elated, and addressing all, “that Grizel put in the coffin.  She told me to tell you about it when the cords fell on the lid.”

“What sort of a paper?” asked Mr. Dishart, frowning.

“It’s—­it’s a letter to God,” Tommy gasped.

Nothing was to be heard except the shovelling of earth into the grave.  “Hold your spade, John,” the minister said to the gravedigger, and then even that sound stopped.  “Go on,” Mr. Dishart signed to the boy.

“Grizel doesna believe her mother has much chance of getting to heaven,” Tommy said, “and she wrote the letter to God, so that when he opens the coffins on the last day he will find it and read about them.”

“About whom?” asked the stern minister.