“Perhaps she does,” he thought, and his heart grew warm with the fancy that possibly in that other world, whose existence he never really doubted, the Genevra he had wronged would care for his child, if children there need care.  “She will know it is mine at least,” he said, and with a thoughtful face he went in quest of Katy, whom he found sobbing by the side of the mourning garments just sent in for her inspection.

Wilford was averse to black.  It would not become Katy, he feared, and it would be an unanswerable reason for her remaining closely home for the entire winter.

“What’s this?” he asked, lifting the crape veil and dropping it again with an impatient gesture as Helen replied:  “It is Katy’s mourning veil.”

Contrary to his expectations, black was becoming to Katy, who looked like a pure white lily, as, leaning on Wilford’s arm next day, she stood by the grave where they were burying her child.

Wilford had spoken to her of Greenwood, but she had begged so hard that he had given up that idea, suggesting next, as more in accordance with city custom, that she remain at home while he only followed to the grave; but from this Katy recoiled in such distress that he gave up too, and bore, magnanimously, as he thought, the sight of all the Barlows standing around that grave, alike mourners with himself, and all a right to be there.  Wilford felt his loss deeply, and his heart ached to its very core as he heard the gravel rattling down upon the coffin lid which covered the beautiful child he had loved so much.  But amid it all he never for a moment forgot that he was Wilford Cameron, and infinitely superior to the crowd around him—­except, indeed, his wife, his sister, Dr. Grant, and Helen.  He could bear to see them sorry, and feel that by their sorrow they honored the memory of his child.  But for the rest—­the village herd, with the Barlows in their train—­he had no affinity, and his manner was as haughty and distant as ever as he passed through their midst back to the carriage, which took him again to the farmhouse.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AFTER THE FUNERAL.

Had there been a train back to New York that afternoon Wilford would most certainly have suggested going, but as there was none he passed the time as well as he could, finding Bell a great help to him, but wondering that she could assimilate so readily with such people, declaring herself in love with the farmhouse, and saying she should like to remain there for weeks, if the days were all as sunny as this, the dahlias as gorgeously bright, and the peaches by the well as delicious and ripe.  To these the city girl took readily, visiting them the last thing before retiring, while Wilford found her there when he arose next morning, her dress and slippers nearly spoiled with the heavy dew, and her hands full of the fresh fruit which Aunt Betsy knocked from the tree with a quilting rod; her dress