Funerals were little attended in these sad days.  The living had to be regarded more than the dead, and Raymond Poynsett was only followed to the grave by his two brothers, his father-in-law, and some of the servants.  Rosamond, however, weeping her soft profuse tears, could hear everything from behind the blind at Terry’s open window, on that moist warm autumn day; everything, for no exception was made to the rule that coffins might not be taken into the church during this deadly sickness.  She did hear a faltering and a blundering, which caused her to look anxiously at the tall white figure standing at the head of the grave, and, as she now saw, once or twice catching at the iron railing that fenced in the Poynsett tombs.  Neither her husband nor his brother seemed to notice what she observed.  Absorbed in the sorrow and in one another, they turned away after the service was ended and walked towards the Hall.  Rosamond did not speak for a minute or two, then she turned round to Terry, who was sitting up in bed, with an awe-struck face, listening as well as he could to the low sounds, and watching her.

“Terry, dear, shall you mind my going to see after Herbert Bowater?  I am sure they have let him overwork himself.  If he is not fit to take Lady Tyrrell’s funeral this afternoon, I shall send to Duddingstone on my own responsibility.  I will not have Julius doing that!”

“Do you think he is ill—­Bowater, I mean?” asked Terry.

“I don’t like it.  He seemed to totter as he went across the churchyard, and he blundered.  I shall go and see.”

“Oh yes, go,” said Terry; “I don’t want anybody.  Don’t hurry.”

Rosamond put on her hat and sped away to Mrs. Hornblower’s.  As usual, the front door leading to the staircase was open, and, going up, she knocked at the sitting-room door; but the only response was such a whining and scratching that she supposed the dogs had been left prisoners there and forgotten, and so she turned the lock—­but there was an obstruction; so that though Mungo and Tartar darted out and snuffed round her, only Rollo’s paw and head appeared, and there was a beseeching earnestness in his looks and little moans, as if entreating her to come in.  Another push, vigorously seconded by Rollo within, showed her that it was Herbert’s shoulder that hindered her, and that he was lying outstretched on the floor, apparently just recalled to consciousness by the push; for as Rollo proceeded to his one remedy of licking, there was a faint murmur of “Who—­what—­”

“It is I!  What is the matter?”

“Lady Rose!  I’ll—­I’ll try to move—­oh!” His voice died away, and Rosamond thrust in her salts, and called to Mrs. Hornblower for water, but in vain.  However, Herbert managed to move a little to one side.  She squeezed into the doorway, hastily brought water from his bedroom within, and, kneeling down by him, bathed his face, so that he revived to say, in the same faint voice, “I’m so sorry I made such mulls.  I couldn’t see.  I thought I knew it by heart.”