ly do that at this time of the day. Perhaps you are not aware
that the family--her father, at any rate--is at variance with me as much
as with you.

'I didn't know it.'

'And that I cannot rush into the house as an old friend any more than
you can. Certainly I have the privileges of a distant relationship,
whatever they may be.'

Knight let down the window, and looked ahead. 'There are a great many
people at the station,' he said. 'They seem all to be on the look-out
for us.'

When the train stopped, the half-estranged friends could perceive by the
lamplight that the assemblage of idlers enclosed as a kernel a group of
men in black cloaks. A side gate in the platform railing was open,
and outside this stood a dark vehicle, which they could not at first
characterize. Then Knight saw on its upper part forms against the sky
like cedars by night, and knew the vehicle to be a hearse. Few people
were at the carriage doors to meet the passengers--the majority had
congregated at this upper end. Knight and Stephen alighted, and turned
for a moment in the same direction.

The sombre van, which had accompanied them all day from London, now
began to reveal that their destination was also its own. It had been
drawn up exactly opposite the open gate. The bystanders all fell back,
forming a clear lane from the gateway to the van, and the men in cloaks
entered the latter conveyance.

'They are labourers, I fancy,' said Stephen. 'Ah, it is strange; but I
recognize three of them as Endelstow men. Rather remarkable this.'

Presently they began to come out, two and two; and under the rays of
the lamp they were seen to bear between them a light-coloured coffin of
satin-wood, brightly polished, and without a nail. The eight men took
the burden upon their shoulders, and slowly crossed with it over to the
gate.

Knight and Stephen went outside, and came close to the procession as it
moved off. A carriage belonging to the cortege turned round close to
a lamp. The rays shone in upon the face of the vicar of Endelstow, Mr.
Swancourt--looking many years older than when they had last seen him.
Knight and Stephen involuntarily drew back.

Knight spoke to a bystander. 'What has Mr. Swancourt to do with that
funeral?'

'He is the lady's father,' said the bystander.

'What lady's father?' said Knight, in a voice so hollow that the man
stared at him.

'The father of the lady in the coffin. She died in London, you know, and
has been brou