He went, as desired,—­and was received with a murmur of sympathy by those assembled—­a gathering made up of the head men about the farm, and a few other personages less familiar to the village, but fairly well known to him, such as corn and cattle dealers from the neighbouring town who had for many years done business with Jocelyn in preference to any other farmer.  These came forward and cordially shook hands with Robin, entering at once into conversation with him concerning his future intentions.

“We should like things to go on the same as if th’ old man were alive,” said one, a miller,—­“We don’t like changes after all these years.  But whether you’re up to it, my lad, or not, we don’t know—­and time’ll prove—­”

“Time will prove,” answered Clifford, steadily.  “You may rely upon it that Briar Farm will be worked on the same methods which my uncle practised and approved—­and there will be no changes, except—­the inevitable one”—­and he sighed,—­“the want of the true master’s brain and hand.”

“Eh well!  You’ll do your best, lad!—­I’m sure of that!” and the miller grasped his hand warmly—­“And we’ll all stick by you!  There’s no farm like Briar Farm in the whole country—­that’s my opinion!—­it gives the finest soil and the soundest crops to be got anywhere—­you just manage it as Farmer Jocelyn managed it, with men’s work, and you’ll come to no harm!  And, as I say, we’ll all stick by you!”

Robin thanked him, and then moved slowly in and out among the other funeral guests, saying kindly things, and in his quiet, manly way creating a good impression among them, and making more friends than he himself was aware of.  Presently Mr. Bayliss, a mild-looking man with round spectacles fixed very closely up against his eyes, approached him, beckoning him with one finger.

“When you’re ready, Mr. Clifford,” he said, “I should like to see you in the best parlour—­and the young lady—­I believe she is called Innocent?—­yes, yes!—­and the young lady also.  Oh, there’s no hurry—­no hurry!—­better wait till the guests have gone, as what I have to say concerns only yourself—­and—­er—­yes—­er, the young lady before mentioned.  And also a—­a”—­here he pulled out a note-book from his pocket and studied it through his owl-like glasses—­“yes!—­er, yes!—­a Miss Priscilla Priday—­she must be present, if she can be found—­I believe she is on the premises?”

“Priscilla is our housekeeper,” said Robin—­“and a faithful friend.”

“Yes—­I—­er—­thought so—­a devoted friend,” murmured Mr. Bayliss, meditatively—­“and what a thing it is to have a devoted friend, Mr. Clifford!  Your uncle was a careful man!—­very careful!—­he knew whom to trust—­he thoroughly knew!  Yes—­we don’t all know—­ but he did!”

Robin made no comment.  The murmuring talk of the funeral party went on, buzzing in his ears like the noise of an enormous swarm of bees—­he watched men eating and drinking the good things Priscilla had provided for the “honour of the farm”—­and then, on a sudden impulse he slipped out of the hall and upstairs to Innocent’s room, where he knocked softly at the door.  She opened it at once, and stood before him—­her face white as a snowdrop, and her eyes heavy and strained with the weight of unshed tears.