“Thank you, Estelle,” he answered, and they returned to the open space together.  The child then joined her father, and Mr. Churchouse, saluting the dead, walked to the first mourning coach and opened the door.

It was a heavy and solid funeral of Victorian fashion proper to the time.  The hearse had been drawn by four black horses with black trappings, and over the invisible coffin nodded a gloomy harvest of black ostrich plumes.  There were no flowers, and some children, who crept forward with a little wreath of wild roses, were pushed back.

The men from the Mill helped to carry their master into the church; but there were not enough of them to support the massive oak that held a massive man, and John Best, Levi Baggs, Benny Cogle and Nicholas Roberts were assisted by the undertakers.

From the first coach descended an elderly woman and a youth.  The lady was Miss Jenny Ironsyde, sister of the dead, and with her came her nephew Daniel, the new mill-owner.  He was five-and-twenty—­a sallow, strong-faced young fellow, broad in the shoulder and straight in the back.  His eyes were brown and steady, his mouth and nose indicated decision; the funeral had not changed his cast of countenance, which was always solemn; for, as his father before him, he lacked a sense of humour.

Mr. Churchouse shook hands and peered into the coach.

“Where’s Raymond?” he asked.

“Not come,” answered Miss Ironsyde.  She was a sturdy woman of five-and-fifty, with a pleasant face and kindly eyes.  But they were clouded now and she showed agitation.

“Not come!” exclaimed Ernest with very genuine consternation.

Daniel Ironsyde answered.  His voice was slow, but he had a natural instinct for clarity and spoke more to the point than is customary with youth.

“My brother has not come because my father has left him out of his will, Mr. Churchouse.”

“Altogether?”

“Absolutely.  Will you take my aunt’s arm and follow next after me, please?”

Two clergymen met the coffin at the lich-gate, and behind the chief mourners came certain servants and dependents, followed by the women of the Mill.  Then a dozen business men walked together.  A few of his co-workers had sent their carriages; but most came themselves, to do the last honour to one greatly respected.

Mr. Churchouse paid little attention to the obsequies.

“Not at his father’s funeral!” he kept thinking to himself.  His simple mind was thrown into a large confusion by such an incident.  The fact persisted rather than the reason for it.  He longed to learn more, but could not until the funeral was ended.

When the coffin came to the grave, Mary Dinnett stole home to look after the midday dinner.  It had weighed on her mind since she awoke, for Miss Ironsyde and Daniel were coming to ‘The Magnolias’ to partake of a meal before returning home.  There were no relations from afar to be considered, and no need for funeral baked meats in the dead man’s house.