He and his sister had followed in their carriage the funeral of Franky Day. Sir Francis had wished, seeing that he must appear there, to appear unobtrusively, but Ada had thought that she also--painful as it was--must be present, and Ada could not go afoot. The Forcus carriage, therefore, had been conspicuous in the meagre procession following the little coffin to the cemetery. "We must remember that the poor things have seen better days, and be careful how we offer," Miss Forcus said. "I have no doubt we shall find they would rather starve than touch our money." "I hope they know Reggie has gone away; otherwise it might have looked heartless his not being there to-day." "They will understand. And Reggie could not have stood it. It was painful enough as it was," Sir Francis said. It had been very painful. He thought of the figure of the poor mother, tearless, looking down into the little grave; of the poor weeping girls clinging to her. Franky's common little school had attended, and stood, marshalled by the meagre young master in charge, at a distance, but the small son of the once despised cutler had advanced, pushed forwards encouragingly by his comrades, and dropped upon the coffin a bunch of flowers gathered from the garden on the road, where Franky and he had loved to play. No other flowers were there. It was before the day of floral memorial displays. "If they would let us bear the funeral expenses, or put up a little monument in the cemetery, or a window in their church?" Ada suggested. "If we could do something to help them to make a living," Sir Francis said. The day of Franky's funeral had been the first to bring home the fact that summer was gone. The chapel had been cold and bleak, and while they stood around the grave it began to rain. In the drawing-room at Cashelthorpe the fire had been lit, and tea awaited the brother and sister. Consoling as these comforts were they could not dispel the sadness which oppressed the kind heart of Ada Forcus. "I shall never forget those poor things, to-day. Never!" she said, and cried unashamedly into her tea-cup. The man, of course, did not cry, but he too appeared for the time overwhelmed with the shadow of what had befallen. "I spoke to their old servant to-day," he said. "It seems the child was called back; Reggie wouldn't listen; drove off with him." "I am horribly sorry for Reggie. But oh, I can't forget how _little_ the coffin looked. Francis, what a handsome family they are! I couldn't help noticing that, even when they cried, the girls were pretty." It was more than could have been said of Ada; and she knew it, but cried all the same. "The younger girl is extremely good-looking," the brother said, "and she is a conscientious and good girl, besides."