Mrs. Cornthwaite and Hester visited her on the following day, and begged her to come back with them. But Claire refused very courteously, but without being quite able to hide her feeling that their offers of kindness and of sympathy came too late. As, however, the farm and everything Mr. Biron had left were to be sold, it was necessary that she should go somewhere. So, on the day after the funeral, Claire returned to the cottage of the old housekeeper at Chelmsley, who had written inviting her most warmly to return. Bram, who had not dared to ask to see her, feeling more diffidence in approaching her than he had ever done before, felt a pang whenever he passed the desolate farmhouse on his way to and from his work. All the news he got of Claire was through Joan, who received from the grateful and affectionate girl letters which she could not answer without great difficulty and many appeals to her children, who had had the advantage of the School Board. Joan gradually became sceptical as the time went on as to the fulfilment of her old wish that Bram should marry Claire. Winter melted into spring, and yet he made no effort to see her; he sent her no messages, and she, on her side, said very little about him in her letters. Indeed, as the leaves began to peep out on the trees, there cropped up occasional references in those same letters of hers to the kindness of a curate, who was teaching her to sketch, and encouraging her to take such simple pleasures as came in her way. Joan spelt out one of the letters which referred to these occupations to Bram on the next occasion of their meeting. Then she looked up with a broad smile, and gave him a huge nod. “Ye’ll get left in the lurch, Mr. Elshaw, that’ll be t’ end of it!” she said, with great emphasis. “Well,” said Bram with apparent composure, “if she takes him, it will be because she likes him. And if she likes him, why shouldn’t she have him?” But he was ill-pleased for all that. The vague hopes he had long ago cherished had become stronger, more definite of late; he had forced himself to be patient, to wait, telling himself that it would be indelicate to intrude upon the grief, the horror of the awful shock from which she must still be suffering.