sleep, the queerness of being in the
drawing-room at such an hour in conspiratorial talk, the vague disquiet
caused at midnight, and now intensified despite his angry efforts to
avoid the contagion of Mrs Hamps's mood, and above all the thought of
his father gloomily wandering in the garden--amid these confusing
sensations, it was precisely an idea communicated to him by his annoying
aunt, an obvious idea, an idea not worth uttering, that emerged clear
and dramatic: he was the only son.

"There's no need to worry," he said as firmly as he could "The funeral
got on his nerves, that's all. He certainly did seem a bit knocked
about last night, and I shouldn't have been surprised if he'd stayed in
bed to-day. But you see he's up and about." Both of them glanced at
the window, which gave on the garden.

"Yes," murmured Mrs Hamps, unconvinced. "But what about his crying?
Maggie tells me he was--"

"Oh!" Edwin interrupted her almost roughly. "That's nothing. I've
known him cry before."

"Have you?" She seemed taken aback.

"Yes. Years ago. That's nothing fresh."

"It's true he's very sensitive," Mrs Hamps reflected. "That's what we
don't realise, maybe, sometimes. Of course if you think he's all
right--"

She approached the window, and, leaning over the tripod which held a
flower-pot enveloped in pink paper, she drew the white curtain aside,
and gazed forth in silence. Darius was still pacing up and down the
short path at the extremity of the garden; his eyes were still on the
ground, and his features expressive of mournful despair, and at the end
of the path he still turned his body round with slow and tedious
hesitations. Edwin also could see him through the window. They both
watched him; it was as if they were spying on him.

Maggie entered, and said, in an unusual flutter--

"Here's Clara and Albert!"

------------------------------------------------------------------------

THREE.

Clara and her husband came immediately into the drawing-room. The wife,
dressed with a certain haste and carelessness, was carrying in her arms
her third child, yet unweaned, and she expected a fourth in the early
autumn. Clara had matured, she had grown stronger; and despite the
asperity of her pretty, pale face there was a charm in the free gestures
and the large body of the young and prolific mother. Albert Benbow wore
the rough, clay-dusted attire of the small earthenware manufacturer who
is away from the w