is that on its back?"

"Surely it's a pack, the black thing across it," said Sim.

Ralph caught his breath and stopped. Then he ran forward.

"Great God!" he cried, "Betsy! It is Betsy, with the coffin."

CHAPTER XXXIII. SEPULTURE AT LAST.

Truly, it was Betsy, the mare which they had lost on that fearful day
at the Stye Head Pass. Her dread burden, the coffin containing the
body of Angus Ray, was still strapped to her back. None had come nigh
to her, or this must have been removed. She looked worn and tired as
she rose now to her feet amid the snow. The old creature was docile
enough this morning, and when Ralph patted her head, she seemed to
know the hand that touched her.

She had crossed a range of mountains, and lived, no doubt, on the thin
grass of the fells. She must have famished quickly had the snow fallen
before.

Ralph was profoundly agitated. Never before had Sim seen him betray
such deep emotion. If the horse with its burden had been a
supernatural presence, the effect of its appearance on Ralph had not
been greater. At first clutching the bridle, he looked like a man who
was puzzled to decide whether, after all, this thing that had occurred
were not rather a spectre that had wandered out of his dreams than a
tangible reality, a blessed and gracious reality, a mercy for which he
ought there and then to fling himself in gratitude on the ground, even
though the snow drifted over him forever and made that act his last.
Then the tears that tenderer moments could not bring stood in his
enraptured eyes. Those breathless instants were as the mirror of what
seemed to be fifty years of fear and hope.

Ralph determined that no power on earth should remove his hand from
the bridle until his father had at length been buried. The parish of
Askham must have its church and churchyard, and Angus Ray should be
buried there. They had not yet passed by the church--it must be still
in front of them--and with the horse and its burden by their side the
friends walked on.

When Ralph found voice to speak, he said, "Wednesday--then it is three
weeks to-day since we lost her, and for three weeks my father has
waited sepulture!"

Presently they came within sight of a rude chapel that stood at the
meeting of two roads. A finger-post was at the angle, with arms
pointing in three directions. The chapel was a low whitewashed Gothic
building, with a little belfry in which there hung no bell. At its
rear was a house