only three feet deep, but
the water coming in had prevented them from digging further. As we laid
the coffin in the hole it looked quite decent now in its black covering.
It floated on the water, but after some clods had been thrown down, it
sank with many gurglings. It was as if the dead man protested against
his bitter burial. We watched the grave-diggers throw a few more
shovelsful of earth over the place, then go off whistling. Poor little
Berna! she cried steadily. At last she said:

"Let's get some flowers."

So out of briar-roses she fashioned a cross and a wreath, and we laid
them reverently on the muddy heap that marked the Bank clerk's grave.

Oh, the pitiful mockery of it!

CHAPTER XV

Soon I knew that Berna and I must part, and but two nights later it
came. It was near midnight, yet in no ways dark, and everywhere the camp
was astir. We were sitting by the river, I remember, a little way from
the boats. Where the sun had set, the sky was a luminous veil of
ravishing green, and in the elusive light her face seemed wanly sweet
and dreamlike.

A sad spirit rustled amid the shivering willows and a great sadness had
come over the girl. All the happiness of the past few days seemed to
have ebbed away from her and left her empty of hope. As she sat there,
silent and with hands clasped, it was as if the shadows that for a
little had lifted, now enshrouded her with a greater gloom.

"Tell me your trouble, Berna."

She shook her head, her eyes wide as if trying to read the future.

"Nothing."

Her voice was almost a whisper.

"Yes, there is, I know. Tell me, won't you?"

Again she shook her head.

"What's the matter, little chum?"

"It's nothing; it's only my foolishness. If I tell you, it wouldn't help
me any. And then--it doesn't matter. You wouldn't care. Why should you
care?"

She turned away from me and seemed absorbed in bitter thought.

"Care! why, yes, I would care; I do care. You know I would do anything
in the world to help you. You know I would be unhappy if you were
unhappy. You know----"

"Then it would only worry you."

She was regarding me anxiously.

"Now you must tell me, Berna. It will worry me indeed if you don't."

Once more she refused. I pleaded with her gently. I coaxed, I entreated.
She was very reluctant, yet at last she yielded.

"Well, if I must," she said; "but it's all so sordid, so mean, I hate
myself; I despise myself that I should have to tell it."