she wondered with an almost impersonal curiosity whither they were bound.  She had been told, but she had not listened.  She had reached such depths of suffering—­indeed, she had quite touched bottom—­that it now needed an event of considerable moment to make the least impression on her mutilated sensibilities.  When they reached the market-place and bore to the right, she gathered that they were going to Pennington.

The day was perfect—­a day that in happier circumstances Mavis would have loved.  The sun reigned in a cloudless sky, the blue of which was mellowed with a touch of autumn dignity.  The grasses waved gladly by the road-side, and along the ditches; patches of sunlight played delightful games of hide-and-seek on hedge-rows and among the trees.  Most of the bushes were gay with song, while the birds seemed to laugh in very defiance of winter when the sun was so warm.  The unrestrained joy and vivacity of the day emphasised the gloom that rilled the first of the two funeral carriages.  Mavis stared with dull surprise at the rollicking gaiety of the afternoon:  its callousness to her anguish irked her.  It made her think how unnecessary and altogether bootless was the loss she had sustained.  She tried to realise that God had singled her out for suffering as a mark of His favour.  But at the bottom of her heart she nourished something in the nature of resentment against the Most High.  She knew that, if only life could be restored to the child, she would be base enough to forfeit her chances of eternal life in exchange for the boon.  As she passed a by-lane, a smart cart, containing a youngish man and a gaily-clad, handsome, happy-looking girl, pulled up sharply in coming from this in order to avoid a collision.  Mavis saw the gladness fade from the faces of the occupants of the cart as they realised the nature of the procession they had encountered.  The man took off his cap; the girl looked away with frightened eyes.

Five minutes later, the two carriages entered the gates of Pennington Churchyard.  The wind was blowing from Melkbridge, therefore she had not heard before the measured tolling of the bell, which now seemed, every time it struck, to stab her soul to the quick.  The carriage pulled up at the door of the tiny church.  After waiting a few moments, Mavis got out.

Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she walked up the church, to sit in a pew near the top.  Although she never took her eyes from the flower-covered coffin, she was aware that Windebank was sitting at the back, whilst, a few moments later, Miss Toombs strolled into the church with the manner of one who had got there by the merest chance.

“Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live.”

Mavis stood up directly those words were spoken; otherwise, she paid no attention to the exquisite periods of the burial service:  her heart was with her boy.  The present was as much as she could endure; she was nerving herself for the time when she should leave the church.  Till now, she felt that her baby was part of this life and herself; then, without further ado, he would be torn from her cognisance to be put out of sight in the ground.