Her voice was almost harsh in this sudden cry. What was it--a lie, or the truth? That a woman who had been so outraged and tormented should wish to be buried with her husband seemed to John Trevanion a thing impossible; and yet there was no falsehood in her face. He did not know what to think or say. After a moment he went away and left her alone with her--what?--her grief, her widowhood, her mourning--or was it only a physical frame that could bear no more, the failure of nature, altogether exhausted and worn out? CHAPTER XVI. “The mother might have managed better, Rosie--why wasn’t I sent for? I’m the eldest and the heir, and I ought to have been here. Poor old papa--he would miss me, I know. He was fond of me because I was the biggest. He used to tell me things, I ought to have been sent for. Why didn’t she send for me, Rosalind?” “I have told you before, Rex. We did not know. When I went out in the afternoon he was better and all going well; and when I came back-- I had only been in the park--he was dying. Oh, you should be rather glad you were not there. He took no notice of any one, and death is terrible. I never understood what it was--” Reginald was silent for a little. He was sufficiently awestricken even now by the sensation of the closed shutters and darkened house. “That may be,” he said, in a softened voice, “but though you did not know, she would know, Rosie. Do you think she wanted me not to be there? Russell says--” “Don’t speak to me of that woman, Rex. She killed my father--” “Oh, come, Rosie, don’t talk nonsense, you know. How could she kill him? She wanted to tell him something that apparently he ought to have known. It was _that_ that killed him,” said the boy, with decision.