He, for his part, never asked for any one to come near him, not even a priest, nor a monk or friar; but seemed to be going his own way, peaceful, and well contented.  Only the chief of the women said that from his face she believed and knew that he liked to have me at one side of his bed, and Lorna upon the other.  An hour or two ere the old man died, when only we two were with him, he looked at us both very dimly and softly, as if he wished to do something for us, but had left it now too late.  Lorna hoped that he wanted to bless us; but he only frowned at that, and let his hand drop downward, and crooked one knotted finger.

“He wants something out of the bed, dear,” Lorna whispered to me; “see what it is, upon your side, there.”

I followed the bent of his poor shrunken hand, and sought among the pilings; and there I felt something hard and sharp, and drew it forth and gave it to him.  It flashed, like the spray of a fountain upon us, in the dark winter of the room.  He could not take it in his hand, but let it hang, as daisies do; only making Lorna see that he meant her to have it.

“Why, it is my glass necklace!” Lorna cried, in great surprise; “my necklace he always promised me; and from which you have got the ring, John.  But grandfather kept it, because the children wanted to pull it from my neck.  May I have it now, dear grandfather?  Not unless you wish, dear.”

Darling Lorna wept again, because the old man could not tell her (except by one very feeble nod) that she was doing what he wished.  Then she gave to me the trinket, for the sake of safety; and I stowed it in my breast.  He seemed to me to follow this, and to be well content with it.

Before Sir Ensor Doone was buried, the greatest frost of the century had set in, with its iron hand, and step of stone, on everything.  How it came is not my business, nor can I explain it; because I never have watched the skies; as people now begin to do, when the ground is not to their liking.  Though of all this I know nothing, and less than nothing I may say (because I ought to know something); I can hear what people tell me; and I can see before my eyes.

The strong men broke three good pickaxes, ere they got through the hard brown sod, streaked with little maps of gray where old Sir Ensor was to lie, upon his back, awaiting the darkness of the Judgment-day.  It was in the little chapel-yard; I will not tell the name of it; because we are now such Protestants, that I might do it an evil turn; only it was the little place where Lorna’s Aunt Sabina lay.

Here was I, remaining long, with a little curiosity; because some people told me plainly that I must be damned for ever by a Papist funeral; and here came Lorna, scarcely breathing through the thick of stuff around her, yet with all her little breath steaming on the air, like frost.