The Parson and Miss Morven spent the night succeeding Captain Ramsay’s death at Ivy House, and were anxious to carry his widow off to the Rectory; but she preferred to remain in her own home until after the funeral, and then leave Ottinge. All Mrs. Ramsay’s little world, gentle and simple, had shown her their kindness and sympathy: the Rector looked after business matters, Miss Susan had undertaken correspondence (she enjoyed letter-writing), Wynyard took charge of the dogs, whilst Aurea gave personal attendance and warm affection. The inquest was conducted as quietly and as speedily as possible, thanks to the good offices of Dr. Boas; the verdict returned was “suicide whilst of unsound mind,” and the jury offered their sincere condolences with the widow. At the funeral Ottinge was proud to note a lord and two honourables appearing as mourners, and the remains of Captain Ramsay received Christian interment in the churchyard; there was no word of cross-roads--much less a stake! Afterwards, Mrs. Ramsay’s brothers, who were guests at the Rectory, took their departure, and it was generally known that their sister would follow them to Ireland within a week. Her obstinate persistence in for years clinging to a man who by rights should be in an asylum had alienated her friends; but now that he was no more, there reigned a great peace. The boarder dogs had been abruptly dispersed, and Wynyard, who obtained special leave, personally conducted several parties over the fields to Catsfield station, and wound up matters out of doors. Aurea did the same within--but they rarely met. She was surprised to discover the footing on which her aunts’ chauffeur stood at Ivy House. Till now she knew little of their acquaintance; it was a before-breakfast and after-dark affair. It was also Wynyard’s task to collect and sort and pack the Captain’s belongings, by his widow’s particular desire. “I like to have you about,” she said. “Is it not wonderful how well we have got to know one another, and how much we have in common, since I opened the hall door to you, a stranger, that wet morning last April? Jim was devoted to you, and you were so good to him--sitting here, evening after evening, talking and listening and playing picquet with that poor fellow. Oh, Owen, if you had known him as your father and I knew him, you would understand why I, forsaking all my own people, clung to him till the _end_!” “Yes, you did that!” he answered, with emphasis. “Only think of the tragedy of his life,” she resumed, in a broken voice, “the last fifteen years, all through a branch knocking off his sun topee and his determination to get first spear. Oh, what a little thing to mean so much! The way of life.”