She did not know her father's grave, for no stone marked the spot where
he sank in this broken earthy sea. There was no church: its memory even
had vanished. It seemed as if the churchyard had swallowed the church
as the heavenly light shall one day swallow the sun and the moon; and
the lake of divine fire shall swallow death and hell. She lingered a
little, and then set out on her slow return, often sitting down on the
pebbles, sea-worn ages before the young river had begun to play with
them.
Resting thus about half way home, she sang a song which she had found
in her father's old song-book. She had said it once to Alec and Curly,
but they did not care much for it, and she had not thought of it again
till now.
"Ane by ane they gang awa'.
The gatherer gathers great an' sma'.
Ane by ane maks ane an' a'.
Aye whan ane is ta'en frae ane,
Ane on earth is left alane,
Twa in heaven are knit again.
Whan God's hairst is in or lang,
Golden-heidit, ripe, and thrang,
Syne begins a better sang."
She looked up, and Curly was walking through the broad river to where
she sat.
"I kent ye a mile aff, Annie," he said.
"I'm glaid to see ye, Curly.
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