of a slow tear trickling over her burning cheek, he added hurriedly:
"Think of your baby--I'll see yer through. Sit still, little boy--sit
still! Ye're disturbin' of your mother."

Once more the little boy stayed the drumming of his heels to look at him
who spoke; and the closed cab rolled on with its slow, jingling sound.

In the third four-wheeled cab, where the windows again were wide open,
Martin Stone, with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his coat,
and his long legs crossed, sat staring at the roof, with a sort of
twisted scorn on his pale face.

Just inside the gate, through which had passed in their time so many
dead and living shadows, Hilary stood waiting. He could probably not
have explained why he had come to see this tiny shade committed to the
earth--in memory, perhaps, of those two minutes when the baby's eyes had
held parley with his own, or in the wish to pay a mute respect to her on
whom life had weighed so hard of late. For whatever reason he had come,
he was keeping quietly to one side. And unobserved, he, too, had his
watcher--the little model, sheltering behind a tall grave.

Two men in rusty black bore the little coffin; then came the white-robed
chaplain; then Mrs. Hughs and her little son; close behind, his head
thrust forward with trembling movements from side to side, old Creed;
and, last of all, young Martin Stone. Hilary joined the young doctor. So
the five mourners walked.

Before a small dark hole in a corner of the cemetery they stopped. On
this forest of unflowered graves the sun was falling; the east wind,
with its faint reek, touched the old butler's plastered hair, and