that had served him in his conflict on
his breast, and three camellia buds from Viola's tree. Dermot had
thought of her and ridden over to fetch them. There had been no
disfigurement. If there had been he might have lived, but still it was
a comfort to know that the dear face was last seen in more than its own
calm majesty, as of one who lay asleep after a mighty conquest. Over
the coffin they placed the lion's skin. It had been left in the room
during his illness, and must have been condemned, and it made his fit
pall when they took it to be buried with him. It was before daybreak
that, with good old Richardson's help, they carried him down to a large
cart belonging to the potteries, drawn by the two big horses he used to
pet, and driven by George Yolland himself. They took him to our own
family burial-place in Arghouse churchyard, where the grave had been
dug at night. They meant no one to be there, but behold! there was a
multitude of heads gathered round, two or three hundred at least, and
when the faithful four seemed to need aid in carrying that great weight
the few steps from the gate, there was a rush forward, in spite of the
peril, and disappointment when no help was accepted.

Ben Yolland read the service over the grave, and therewith there was
the low voice of many, many weepers, as they closed it in, and left him
there among his forefathers, under his lion's skin; and even at that
moment a great, golden, glorious sun broke out above the horizon, and
bathed them all over with light, while going forth as a giant to run
his course, conquering the night mists.

Then they turned back to the town, and Dermot came by the next train to
town to tell me. But of all this I at first gathered but little, for
his words were broken and his voice faint and choked, not only with
grief, but with utter exhaustion; and I was so slow to realise all,
that I hardly knew more than the absolute fact, before a message came
hurriedly down that Dora was worse, and I must come instantly. Dermot,
who had talked himself into a kind of dull composure, stood up and said
he would come again on the morrow, when he was a little rested, for,
indeed, he had not lain down since Saturday, and was quite worn out.

I went up, with heart quailing at the thought of letting that
passionately loving creature guess what had befallen her, and yet how
could I command myself with her? But that perplexity was spared me.
The tidings had, through t