he could not suffer her boy to be alone during the last
night of his brief stay on earth.

The next afternoon, about two, when all Melkbridge was agog with
excitement at the wedding of Major Perigal's son to Victoria Devitt,
two funeral carriages might have been seen drawing up at a cottage in
the Broughton Road. Under the driver's seat of the first was quickly
placed a small coffin, which was smothered with wreaths, while a tall,
comely, fair young woman, clad in deep mourning, stepped into the
coach, the blinds of which were closely drawn. A homely, elderly man,
accompanied by his wife, got into the next, and the two carriages drove
off at a smart trot in the direction of the town. Soon after the little
procession had started, a black spaniel might have been seen escaping
into the road, where it followed the carriages with its nose to the
ground, much in the same way as it had been used to follow the Pimlico
'buses in which its mistress travelled when she had carried her baby.

Mavis, white and drawn, lay back in the carriage that was proceeding on
its relentless way. She did not know, she did not care, who had made
the arrangements for this dismal ride. All she knew was that all she
had left of life seemed confined in the glass case beneath the driver's
seat.

During the morning, Mrs Trivett had brought in wreaths of flowers from
Windebank, Miss Toombs, herself, and her husband. A last one had
arrived, which bore upon the attached card, "From C.P., with all
imaginable sympathy." Mavis, after glancing at the well-remembered
writing, had trodden the flowers underfoot and then had passionately
kicked the ruined wreath from the room.

He, at least, should have no part in her sorrowful lot. As she drove
into the town, she was now and again met by gay carriages which were
returning from setting down wedding guests at the church door. The
drivers of these wore wedding favours pinned to their coats, while
their whips were decorated with white satin ribbons. As each carriage
passed, Mavis felt a sharp tugging at her heart. She guessed that she
was not being driven to Melkbridge; she wondered with an almost
impersonal curiosity whither they were bound. She had been told, but
she had not listened. She had reached such depths of suffering--indeed,
she had quite touched bottom--that it now needed an event of
considerable moment to make the least impression on her mutilated
sensibilities. When they reached the market-place and