“Go with me, Miss Armstrong,” she whispered, as she passed me in the hall, and I followed after her until, as the carriage was reached, and she was about to enter, when I felt a sudden rush behind me, and was conscious that something unusual was agitating the crowd, and causing it to divide and fall back as if to give room for some one. It was for Godfrey, who, flushed and excited, made his way through the throng of people, and lifting Gertie from the ground as if she had been a feather’s weight, put her in the carriage before she knew whose arms were encircling her in so tender, masterful a manner as if they had the right. Little Arthur was put in next, and then Godfrey followed himself, closing the door behind him, and effectually shutting me out. But I knew it was better so, and was glad he was there, a help and a comfort to Gertie. By the merest accident he had heard that morning from Tom Barton of Mrs. Barrett’s death and Edith’s illness, and had taken the next train for Hampstead, which he reached just in time to join the funeral procession. Nor was his coming inopportune. He had a feeling, he said, that everything would devolve on Gertie, who would need somebody to sustain her. And she did, and when recovered from the first shock of finding Godfrey beside her, caring for her so kindly, she gave way, and her head drooped for a moment on his shoulder, as she sobbed out: “Oh, Godfrey, what made you come? I am so glad, so glad.” “What for you tie, then, if you’se glad?” Arthur said, looking curiously from Gertie to Godfrey, and from Godfrey back to Gertie, as if not quite sure that all was right. “Halloo, you little shaver, who thought you could put two and two together,” Godfrey said, as he took his brother in his lap and held him there until they reached the grave; then he alighted and stood with the child between himself and Gertie, while the burial service was read. “That’s my _danmusser_ in the box,” Arthur said, aloud, as the coffin was lowered from sight, and when the bystanders heard it more than one wept for the lonely woman, the “danmusser” of the little three-years-old Arthur, whose golden curls were tossed by the November wind as he stood on tiptoe leaning forward to look into the grave and throw the wreath of everlastings he had brought for this purpose. Arthur was greatly attached to his tall brother Godfrey, and hung about him constantly after the return from the grave, and told both Mrs. Tiffe and his father that “Dirtie had tied on Godfrey’s coat ’cause she was so glad danmusser was dead.” Godfrey had intended to return that same night if possible, but when he spoke of it before Gertie it seemed to him that her eyes pleaded with him to stay, and when he stood for a moment as he did at Edith’s bedside and saw how sick she was, he felt that to leave was impossible until the balance was turned one way or the other, and he knew whether his fair young step-mother lived or died.