It was first made plain on the day of Melrose’s funeral.  In order to avoid the concourse which might attend a burial in Whitebeck parish church, lying near the main road, and accessible from many sides, it was determined to bury him in the graveyard of the little mountain chapel on the fell above the Penfolds’ cottage.  The hour was sunrise; and all the preparations had been as secretly made as possible.  But when the dark December morning arrived, with sleet showers whitening all the slopes of Helvellyn and the gashed breast of Blencathra, a dense crowd thronged all the exits of the Tower, and lined the steep lanes leading to the chapel.  Faversham, Cyril Boden, and a Carlisle solicitor occupied the only carriage which followed the hearse.  Tatham and his mother met the doleful procession at the chapel.  Lady Tatham, very pale and queenly, walked hand in hand with a slight girl in mourning.  As the multitude outside the churchyard caught sight of the pair, a thrill ran through its ranks.  Melrose’s daughter, and rightful heiress—­disinherited, and supplanted—­by the black-haired man standing bareheaded behind the coffin.  The crowd endured the mockery of the burial service in a sullen silence.  Not a head uncovered.  Not a voice joined in the responses.

Felicia threw back her veil, and the onlookers pressed to the churchyard railings to see the delicate face, with its strong likeness to her father.  She meanwhile saw only Tatham.  Her eyes were fixed on him from first to last.

But there were two other ladies in the churchyard.  After the hurried ceremony was over, one of them approached Faversham.  He took her hand in silence, looking down into the eyes—­the soul—­of Lydia.  With what angelic courage and cheer that look was charged, only its recipient knew.

“Come and see us,” she said, softly.

He shook his head, with a look of pain.  Then he pressed her hand and they separated.  As he appeared at the churchyard gate, about to enter the carriage which was waiting, a grim low groan ran through the throng which filled the lane.  There was something in the sound to strike a shiver through the strongest.  Faversham grew perhaps a little paler, but as he seated himself in the carriage he examined the scowling faces near him with a quiet indifference, which scarcely altered when Tatham came conspicuously to the carriage-door to bid him farewell.

The days that followed reminded some of the older dalesmen of the stories told by their fathers of the great and famous hunt, a century ago, after the sheep-slaying “dog of Ennerdale,” who for five months held a whole district at bay; appearing and disappearing phantom-like among the crags and mists of the high fells, keeping shepherds and farming-folk in perpetual excitement, watched for by night and day, hunted by hounds and by men, yet never to be captured; frightening lovers from their trysts, and the children from school; a presence and a terror prevading men’s minds,