insistent notes.  This reminder of the measuring of time recalled to Mavis the swift flight, not only of the hours, but of the days and years.  It enabled her dimly to realise the infinitesimal speck upon the chart of recorded time which even the most prolonged span of individual life occupied.  So fleeting was this stay, that it almost seemed as if it were a matter of no moment if life should happen to be abbreviated by untimely death.  Whilst the girl’s mind thus struggled to alleviate its pain and to mend the gaps made by the slings and arrows of poignant grief in its defences, Trivett stumbled downstairs and blundered against the pews as he approached.  Then the two walked home, where Mavis resumed her lonely vigil beside the ark which contained all that was mortal of her baby.  No matter what further anguish this watch inflicted, she could not suffer her boy to be alone during the last night of his brief stay on earth.

The next afternoon, about two, when all Melkbridge was agog with excitement at the wedding of Major Perigal’s son to Victoria Devitt, two funeral carriages might have been seen drawing up at a cottage in the Broughton Road.  Under the driver’s seat of the first was quickly placed a small coffin, which was smothered with wreaths, while a tall, comely, fair young woman, clad in deep mourning, stepped into the coach, the blinds of which were closely drawn.  A homely, elderly man, accompanied by his wife, got into the next, and the two carriages drove off at a smart trot in the direction of the town.  Soon after the little procession had started, a black spaniel might have been seen escaping into the road, where it followed the carriages with its nose to the ground, much in the same way as it had been used to follow the Pimlico ’buses in which its mistress travelled when she had carried her baby.

Mavis, white and drawn, lay back in the carriage that was proceeding on its relentless way.  She did not know, she did not care, who had made the arrangements for this dismal ride.  All she knew was that all she had left of life seemed confined in the glass case beneath the driver’s seat.

During the morning, Mrs Trivett had brought in wreaths of flowers from Windebank, Miss Toombs, herself, and her husband.  A last one had arrived, which bore upon the attached card, “From C.P., with all imaginable sympathy.”  Mavis, after glancing at the well-remembered writing, had trodden the flowers underfoot and then had passionately kicked the ruined wreath from the room.

He, at least, should have no part in her sorrowful lot.  As she drove into the town, she was now and again met by gay carriages which were returning from setting down wedding guests at the church door.  The drivers of these wore wedding favours pinned to their coats, while their whips were decorated with white satin ribbons.  As each carriage passed, Mavis felt a sharp tugging at her heart.  She guessed that she was not being driven to Melkbridge;