She was right enough in this surmise.  Not one who saw Farmer Jocelyn’s coffin lowered into the grave failed to notice the wreath of “Glory” roses that went with it—­“from Innocent";—­and her name was whispered from mouth to mouth with meaning looks and suggestive nods.  And when Robin, with tears thick in his eyes, flung the first handfuls of earth rattling down on the coffin lid, his heart ached to see the lovely fragrant blossoms crushed under the heavy scattered mould, for it seemed to his foreboding mind that they were like the delicate thoughts and fancies of the girl he loved being covered by the soiling mud of the world’s cruelty and slander, and killed in the cold and darkness of a sunless solitude.

All was over at last,—­the final prayer was said—­the final benediction was spoken, and the mourners gradually dispersed.  The Reverend Mr. Medwin, assisted by his young curate, had performed the ceremony, and before retiring to the vestry to take off his surplice, he paused by the newly-made grave to offer his hand and utter suitable condolences to Robin Clifford.

“It is a great and trying change for you,” he said.  “I suppose”—­ this tentatively—­“I suppose you will go on with the farm?”

“As long as I live,” answered Clifford, looking him steadily in the face, “Briar Farm will be what it has always been.”

Mr. Medwin gave him a little appreciative bow.

“We are very glad of that—­very glad indeed!” he said—­“Briar Farm is a great feature—­a very great feature!—­indeed, one may say it is an historical possession.  Something would be lacking in the neighbourhood if it were not kept up to its old tradition and—­er —­reputation.  I think we feel that—­I think we feel it, do we not, Mr. Forwood?” here turning to his curate with affable condescension.

Mark Forwood, a clever-looking young man with kind eyes and intelligent features, looked at Robin sympathetically.

“I am quite sure,” he said, “that Mr. Clifford will take as much pride in the fine old place as his uncle did—­but is there not Miss Jocelyn?—­the daughter will probably inherit the farm, will she not, as nearest of kin?”

Mr. Medwin coughed obtrusively—­and Clifford felt the warm blood rushing to his brows.  Yet he resolved that the truth should be told, for the honour of the dead man’s name.

“She is not my uncle’s daughter,” he said, quietly—­“My uncle never married.  He adopted her when she was an infant—­and she was as dear to him as if she had been his own child.  Of course she will be amply provided for—­there can be no doubt of that.”

Mr. Forwood raised his eyes and eyebrows together.

“You surprise me!” he murmured.  “Then—­there is no Miss Jocelyn?”

Again Robin coloured.  But he answered, composedly—­

“There is no Miss Jocelyn.”

Mr. Medwin’s cough here troubled him considerably, and though it was a fine day, he expressed a mild fear that he was standing too long by the open grave in his surplice—­he, therefore, retired, his curate following him,—­whereupon the sexton, a well-known character in the village, approached to finish the sad task of committing “ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”