The rest of the stone was rich in gray and green and brown
lichens, but only in the letters grew the bright moss; the inscription
stood as it were in the hand of nature herself--"He is not here;
he is risen."
While Malcolm gazed, trying to think what his master would have
him think, the latter resumed.
"If he is risen--if the sun is up, Malcolm--then the morning and
not the evening is the season for the place of tombs; the morning
when the shadows are shortening and separating, not the evening
when they are growing all into one. I used to love the churchyard
best in the evening, when the past was more to me than the future;
now I visit it almost every bright summer morning, and only
occasionally at night."
"But, sir, isna deith a dreidfu' thing?" said Malcolm.
"That depends on whether a man regards it as his fate, or as the
will of a perfect God. Its obscurity is its dread; but if God be
light, then death itself must be full of splendour--a splendour
probably too keen for our eyes to receive."
"But there's the deein' itsel': isna that fearsome? It's that I
wad be fleyed at."
"I don't see why it should be. It's the want of a God that makes
it dreadful, and you will be greatly to blame, Malcolm, if you
haven't found your God by the time you have to die."
They were startled by a gruff voice near them. The speaker was.
hidden by a corner of the church.
"Ay, she's weel happit (covered)," it said. "But a grave never
luiks richt wantin' a stane, an' her auld cousin wad hear o' nane
bein' laid ower her.
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