th caught.

"Then we made out what it was. He wanted to get up here, to come to
you.--Well, I could understand that! I should want just that myself,
shall want it, when it comes to the last. He whimpered when Chifney
carried him back into the Gun-Room."

Honoria turned her head and looked Lady Calmady in the face. Her own
was more than commonly white and very gentle in expression.

"He died in the gray of the morning, with his great head on my lap. I
fancy it eased him to have something human, and--rather pitiful--close
against him. Julius had just come in to see how we were getting on, I
won't declare he did not say a prayer--I think he did. But I wasn't
quite as steady as I might have been just then."

She turned her head, looking back at the figures upon the hearth. She
was satisfied. Lady Calmady's long-sustained calm had given way, and
she wept.

"We buried him, in his blanket, under the big Portugal-laurel, where
the nightingale sings, at the corner of the troco-ground, close to Camp
the First and Old Camp. The upper servants came, and Chaplin and
Hariburt from the house-stables, and Chifney and the head-lad--and some
of the gardeners. Poor, old Wenham drove up in his donkey-chair from
the west lodge. Julius was there, of course. We did all things decently
and in order."

Honoria's voice ceased. She sat stroking the dear hand she held and
smiling to herself, notwithstanding a chokiness in her throat, for she
had a comfortable belief the situation was saved.

Then Clara entered, prepared to encounter remonstrance, bearing a tray.

"It's all right, Clara," Miss St. Quentin said. "Lady Calmady is quite
ready for something to eat. I've been telling her about Camp."

And Katherine, sitting upright, with great docility and a certain
gentle shame, accepted food and drink.

"Since you wish it, dearest," she said, "and since Julius must not be
left alone in a quite empty house."

"Our kingdom of heaven stays with us then?" Honoria exclaimed joyously.

"Such as it is--poor thing--it will do its best to stay. I thought I
had cried my eyes dry forever, long ago. But it seems not. You and Camp
have broken up the drought."

"I have not hurt you?" Honoria said, in sudden penitence.

"No, no--you have given me relief. I was ceasing to be human. The
blessed Thomas was right--I grew very selfish."

"But you're not displeased with me?" Honoria insisted. Lady Calmady's
playfulness had returned, but with a new comple