As we turned out of the gate and into the road I caught
sight of the hearse, Aleck on the box. He sat bolt upright, head erect,
the reins in one hand, the whip resting on his knee, as I had seen him
do so often when driving my father--grave, dignified, and thoughtful,
speaking to the horses in low tones, the hearse moving and stopping as
each carriage would be filled and driven ah pad.
"He wouldn't drive the hearse back; left it standing at the gate of the
cemetery. I heard the discussion, but I couldn't leave my mother to
settle it.
"'I ain't gwine to do it,' I heard him say to the undertaker. 'It was my
marster I was 'tendin' on, not yo' horses. You can drive 'em home
yo'-self.'"
My companion settled himself in his chair, rested his head on his hand,
and closed his eyes. I remained silent, watching him. His cigar had gone
out; so had mine. Once or twice a slight quiver crossed his lips, then
his teeth would close tight, and again his face would relapse into calm
impassiveness.
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