“If you attend the funeral, the boy might tolerate you,” he said.  “Once break down his suspicion and get to his wayward heart, good would come of it He is feeling this very much and in a melting mood.”

“I’ll stop, if he won’t be vexed.”

Mr. Churchouse went into the garden and praised Abel’s energies.

“A beautiful grave; and it is right and proper that Peter Grim should lie here, because he often hunted here.”

“He caught the mice that live in holes at the bottom of the wall,” said Abel.

“If you are ready, we will now bury him.  Mother must come to the funeral, and Estelle must come, because she was very, very fond of poor Peter and she would think it most unkind of us if we buried him while she was not there.  She will bring some flowers for the grave, and you must get some flowers, too, Abel.  We must, in fact, each put a flower on him.”

The boy frowned at mention of Estelle, but forgot her in considering the further problem.

“He liked the mint bed.  I’ll put mint on him,” he said.

“An excellent thought.  And I shall pluck one of the big magnolias myself.”

Returning, Ernest informed Estelle that she must be at the funeral and she went home for a bunch of blossoms to grace the tomb.  She picked hot-house flowers, hoping to propitiate Abel.  There woke a great hope in her to win him.  But she failed.

He glowered at her when she appeared walking beside his mother, while before them marched Mr. Churchouse carrying the departed.  When the funeral was ended and Abel left alone, he sat down by the grave, cried, worked himself into a very mournful mood and finally exhibited anger.  Why he was angry he did not know, or against whom his temper grew; but his great loss woke resentment.  When he felt miserable, somebody was always blamed by him for making him feel so.  No immediate cause for quarrel with anything smaller than fate challenged his unsettled mind; then his eyes fixed upon Estelle’s flowers, and since Estelle was always linked in his thoughts with his father, and his father represented an enemy, he began to hate the flowers and wish them away.  He heard his mother calling him, but hid from her and when she was silent, came back to the grave again.

Meantime Estelle and Ernest drank tea and spoke of Abel.

“When grief has relaxed the emotions, we may often get in a kindly word and give an enemy something to think about afterwards,” he said.  “But the boy was obdurate.  He is the victim of confused thinking—­precocious to a degree in some directions, but very childish in others.  At times he alarms me.  Poor boy.  You must try again to win him.  The general sentiment is that the young should be patient with the old; but for my part I think it is quite as difficult sometimes for the old to be patient with the young.”

He turned to his desk.

“When I found my dear cat was not, I composed an epitaph for him, Estelle.  I design to have it scratched on a stone and set above his sleeping place.”