The funeral lasted an eternity, with friends continuously visiting Drayton Manor to console the widow. They paraded before her as she sat weeping in the drawing room wearing a black veil over her face.
"He is gone," she cried. "I will never be the same again."
The prophetic words rang true in Angus' ears and lingered as a bitter taste in his mouth. It was true. The man was gone. He would not be there to take his dream forward. He stood unnoticed in the back of the room, leaning on a wall. It was a gloomy. Finally the room of friends gathered at the sight of the dug grave.
As the body was being buried, a bolt of lightning streaked across the sky and rain sheated across the yard. The widow shivered. November turned cold. Duncan Campbell drove up in a carriage.
"Get in, son, before your good clothes are soaked," he told Angus.