It was three months after the funeral of the Village Hero. Now I come to think of it, I haven’t mentioned the funeral before.

The hero, a porter at the little railway station, enlisted very early in the campaign. Our village—in the main—did nobly in the way of early enlistment.

A quiet, retiring young fellow, he had never singled himself out for any sort of notoriety, though I, personally, had always remarked on his unvarying courtesy and his willingness to do everything he could to assist passengers.

The news of his death was the first thing to bring the War actually home to our isolated corner of the world.

People had known he was ill, because his wife had been summoned to a military hospital some weeks before, when his condition was pronounced critical. But no one had really anticipated the worst—till it came. And then the word passed quickly from cottage to cottage: “Poor Aleck’s gone!”

“Ay! You don’t say so! Ain’t it just like they Huns to go and kill off the best of the bunch,” said one woman who never had a good word for the lad during his lifetime.

One and all agreed forthwith that proper respect must be shown to “the remains”; and those who didn’t intend to inconvenience themselves by fighting, felt they were serving their country nobly by seeing that poor Aleck had a handsome funeral.

The news of his death reached the village on Friday. On Saturday the older members of the family selected the spot for his grave in the little churchyard, as, of course, he must be buried near his home.

By Sunday all the relatives to the remotest generation wore deep mourning to church—thanks to the superhuman efforts of the village dressmaker, and numerous ready-mades purchased in the nearest town.

The Rector was in a nursing-home in London at the time, but the curate, though only newly arrived, preached a moving sermon, extolling the courage of the young man who had died “with his face to the foe, braving the falling shells and raining bullets in order to defend his country.”

The sentiment was right—Aleck was willing to do all that; but in reality he never got beyond a training camp on the east coast, where, the air proving too bleak for him after the mildness of the west, he had gone down with pneumonia. The new curate didn’t know that, however, and everybody said it was a beautiful sermon, and went and told the poor mother about it, as she had been too grief-stricken to go to church.

So far the widow had not written herself; but that wasn’t surprising; she would be too broken down with trouble. Willing heads and hands did all they could, however, to anticipate her wishes.

They telegraphed to the former curate (now the vicar of a crowded Lancashire parish) and asked if he would conduct the funeral; he had known the deceased from boyhood. He wired back: “Yes; send day and hour.”

They sent to uncles and aunts and cousins throughout Great Britain: all who could arrived post haste on Monday. And what a gathering it was of outstanding members of the clan! Those who hadn’t recognised each other’s existence for years now forgot their ancient feuds, while one and all discovered such good qualities in the poor lad, and were so anxious to insist on the nearness of their relationship, that his death did not seem altogether in vain.

I myself wrote a note to the widow, only waiting to post it till I could get her address.

Miss Bretherton, the Rector’s niece, hurried home from London to do what she could to comfort the parents, who were aloof from the general excitement and knew only the sorrow of the occasion.

While waiting for further details to arrive, people made wreaths, and discussed how best the engine could be draped in black.

As there was no letter by Tuesday morning, and the vicar in Lancashire had again asked for particulars, the self-constituted committee of management decided to send a wire to the widow. After composing—and then discarding—twenty-six different messages, till the post-office was threatened with a famine in telegram forms, the post-mistress came to their assistance, and suggested that the wording should be as brief and as straightforward as possible, to save misunderstanding—and expense. Eventually they were all persuaded to agree to the following:

“What train will the coffin come by? Reply paid.”

In about an hour the widow answered:

“Whose coffin? Don’t know what you mean. Aleck nearly well.”

The whole village has had three points under discussion ever since.

I. Who was it said he was dead?

II. Can a man be made to pay for his own grave being dug when he refuses to occupy it?

III. And what is to become of the mourning anyhow?