They had turned. They were walking on the flagged path by the flower-border under the house. Mamma walked slowly, with meditative pauses, and bright, sidelong glances for her flowers. "If only," she said, "he could work without trampling the flowers down." The sun was shining on the flagged path. Mamma was stooping over the bed; she had lifted the stalk of the daffodil up out of the sunk print of Roddy's boot. Catty was coming down the house passage to the side door. Her mouth was open. Her eyes stared above her high, sallow cheeks. She stood on the doorstep, saying something in a husky voice. "Miss Mary--will you go upstairs to Master Roddy? I think there's something the matter with him. I think--" Upstairs, in his narrow iron bed, Roddy lay on his back, his lips parted, his eyes--white slits under half-open lids--turned up to the ceiling. His arms were squared stiffly above his chest as they had pushed back the bedclothes. The hands had been clenched and unclenched; the fingers still curled in towards the palms. His face had a look of innocence and candour. Catty's thick, wet voice soaked through his mother's crying. "Miss Mary--he went in his first sleep. His hair's as smooth as smooth." X. She was alone with Dan in the funeral carriage. Her heart heaved and dragged with the grinding of the brakes on the hill; the brake of the hearse going in front; the brake of their carriage; the brake of the one that followed with Dr. Charles in it. When they left off she could hear Dan crying. He had begun as soon as he got into the carriage. She tried to think of Dr. Charles, sitting all by himself in the back carriage, calm and comfortable among the wreaths. But she couldn't. She couldn't think of anything but Dan and the black hearse in front of them. She could see it when the road turned to the right; when she shut her eyes she could see the yellow coffin inside it, heaped with white flowers; and Roddy lying deep down in the coffin. The sides were made high to cover his arms, squared over his chest as if he had been beating something off. She could see Roddy's arms beating off his thoughts, and under the fine hair Roddy's face, innocent and candid. Dr. Charles said it wasn't that. He had just raised them in surprise. A sort of surprise. He hadn't suffered. Dan's dark head was bowed forward, just above the level of her knees. His deep, hot eyes were inflamed with grief; they kept on blinking, gushing out tears over red lids. He cried like a child, with loud sobs and hiccoughs that shook him. _Her_ eyes were dry; burning dry; the lids choked with something that felt like hot sand, and hurt. (If only the carriage didn't smell of brandy. That was the driver. He must have sat in it while he waited.) Dan left off crying and sat up suddenly. "What's that hat doing there?" He had taken off his tall hat as he was getting into the carriage and laid it on the empty seat. He pointed at the hat. "That isn't my hat," he said.