hidden away among concealing shadows, she heard the service and watched all the proceedings dry-eyed and heart-stricken. She could not weep any more--there seemed no tears left to relieve the weight of her burning brain. Robin had tenderly urged her to walk with him in the funeral procession, but she refused. "How can I!--how dare I!" she said--"I am not his daughter--I am nothing! The cruel people here know it!--and they would only say my presence was an insult to the dead. Yes!--they would--NOW! He loved me!--and I loved him!--but nobody outside ourselves thinks about that, or cares. You would hardly believe it, but I have already been told how wicked it was of me to be dressed in white when the clergyman called to see me the morning after Dad's death--well, I had no other colour to wear till Priscilla got me this sad black gown--it made me shudder to put it on--it is like the darkness itself!--you know Dad always made me wear white--and I feel as if I were vexing him somehow by wearing black. Oh, Robin, be kind!--you always are!--let me go by myself and watch Dad put to rest where nobody can see me. For after they have laid him down and left him, they will be talking!" 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.