Hiding among a thick group of trees in the neglected older section of the cemetery, he watched as the girls made their way to the main gates. Under cover of the hulking angel headstones so favoured in earlier years, he shadowed their progress- the welcome rain rendering him invisible to those morners who were still straggling from the graveside, their heads down as they walked. This same rain, however also made it impossible to gauge if his girl was crying. The other two obviously were, but that was a simpler matter. Theirs was the primitive wailing of a child who's lost its playmate. But was she , too, indulging in this self-serving act? Or was her face wet as a result of the rain?