ey had settled themselves;
the delicious river, shrunken however by the long drought, which ran past
their windows, and the many virtues--qualified by too many children--of
the primitive Welsh pair who ran the inn.

"I am to say that Miss Pitstone likes it all very much, and has found
some glorious things to draw. Also an elderly gentleman who is sketching
on the river has already promised her a lesson."

"You'll be going down there sometime?" said Buntingford, turning an
enquiring look on his nephew.

"The week-end after next," said Geoffrey--"unless Helena forbids it. I
must inspect the inn, which I recommended--and take stock of the elderly
gentleman!"

The vision of Helena, in "fresh woods and pastures new" radiantly
transfixing the affections of the "elderly gentleman," put them both for
the moment in spirits. Buntingford smiled, and understanding that
Geoffrey was writing to his ward, he left some special messages for her.

But in the days that followed he seldom thought of Helena. He buried his
wife in the village church-yard, and the wondering villagers might
presently read on the headstone he placed over her grave, the short
inscription--"Anna Buntingford, wife of Philip, Lord Buntingford," with
the dates of her birth and death. The Alcotts, authorized by Philip, made
public as much of the story as was necessary, and the presence of the
poor son and heir in the Welwyns' house, together with his tragic
likeness to his father, both completed and verified it. A wave of
unspoken but warm sympathy spread through the countryside. Buntingford's
own silence was unbroken. After the burial, he never spoke of what had
happened, except on one or two rare occasions to John Alcott, who had
become his intimate friend. But unconsciously the attitude of his
neighbours towards him had the effect of quickening his liking for
Beechmark, and increasing the probability of his ultimate settlement
there, at least for the greater part of the year.

Always supposing that it suited the boy--Arthur Philip--the names under
which, according to Zelie, he had been christened in the church of the
hill village near Lucca where he was born. For the care of this innocent,
suffering creature became, from the moment of his mother's death, the
dominating thought of Buntingford's life. The specialist, who came down
before her death, gave the father however little hope of any favourable
result from operation. But he gave a confident opinion that