—CHARLESWESLEY,FUNERALHYMNS
CHAPTER32
The Doddington churchyard was quiet in the late afternoon sun. White willow trees hung low in perpetual sorrow, paying homage to the departed. Field maples, whose leaves were just beginning to turn at the edges, shone orange-red. Blood-red too.
Charles Harris walked slowly through the churchyard, past the ancient yew tree and mottled graves whose inscriptions were worn unreadable, to a row of newer graves along the far wall.
Stepping over fallen leaves and yew needles, he stopped before a small grave. A child’s grave. It was marked by a simple, hand-hewn cross. There was no inscription to give away the identity of the one buried there. But he knew who it was and mourned. Kneeling before the small marker, he reached out a trembling hand and gently touched the wooden surface, wondering again who had made it, who had placed it there, knowing such graves rarely had a marker of any kind.
Tears began flowing down his face, as they often did when in this place. When confronted with this loss.
“I shall never forget you,” he whispered, then rose.
A door creaked open somewhere not far off. Charles turned sharply, startled. From around the corner of the church came Ben Higgins with a shovel over one shoulder and a bunch of chrysanthemums in his other hand.
The young man paused when he saw Charles Harris standing there.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ben Higgins said. “I didn’t know anyone was about the place.”
“Nor I. Did you put that cross there—on that grave?”
Charles pointed and the young man looked in the direction he indicated.
Ben nodded sheepishly. “That I did, sir. But on my own time.”
“I am not reprimanding you. Merely asking.”
Ben nodded again, standing there awkwardly, flowers drooping from his hand.
“Well, go about your work. Do not let me hinder you.”
Still the young man hesitated.
Realization dawned, and Charles nodded toward the flowers.
“Are those ... for that grave?”
“Yes, sir,” Ben admitted, still clearly uncomfortable.
Charles nodded, biting his lip. “You are a kind soul, Ben Higgins.”
Charlotte opened her eyes in the dim light and was surprised to see Dr. Taylor leaning over her bed. He held a candle lamp and wore his dressing gown. Startled, she instinctively pulled the blankets higher on her neck.
Daniel winced. “Forgive me. I had hoped not to wake you. I wanted to check on Anne.”
Only then did she recall that little Anne was in bed beside her. “Oh. Of course.” She remembered now. Anne’s fitfulness, the
burning skin—too hot to merely signal the emergence of more teeth.
“She cried so in her cradle,” Charlotte whispered. “I finally brought her into bed with me.”
Dr. Taylor pulled the baby blanket lower and tenderly felt Anne’s forehead, cheeks, and chest.
“She is still warm. Too warm.”
“I shall go fetch cloths ...”
“Shh ... stay as you are. Let Anne sleep. I shall fetch them.”
