Much Wilford regretted that New York was so far away, for a city coffin was more suitable, he thought, for a child of his, than the one which Dr. Grant had ordered. But that was really of less consequence than the question where the child should be buried. A costly monument at Greenwood was in accordance with his ideas, but all things indicated a contemplated burial there in the country churchyard, and sorely perplexed, he called on Bell as the only Cameron at hand, to know what he should do. “Do just as Katy prefers,” was Bell’s reply, as she led him to the coffin and pointed to the name: “Little Genevra Cameron, aged nine months and twenty days.” “What is it, Wilford—what is the matter?” she asked, as her brother turned whiter than his child. Had “Genevra Lambert, aged 22,” met his eye, he could not have been more startled than he was; but soon rallying, he said to Morris, “The child was baptized, then?” “Yes, baptized Genevra. That was Katy’s choice, I understand,” Morris replied, and Wilford bowed his head, wishing the _Genevra_ across the sea might know that his child bore her name. “Perhaps she does,” he thought, and his heart grew warm with the fancy that possibly in that other world, whose existence he never really doubted, the Genevra he had wronged would care for his child, if children there need care. “She will know it is mine at least,” he said, and with a thoughtful face he went in quest of Katy, whom he found sobbing by the side of the mourning garments just sent in for her inspection. Wilford was averse to black. It would not become Katy, he feared, and it would be an unanswerable reason for her remaining closely home for the entire winter. “What’s this?” he asked, lifting the crape veil and dropping it again with an impatient gesture as Helen replied, “It is Katy’s mourning veil.” Contrary to his expectations, black was becoming to Katy, who looked like a pure white lily, as, leaning on Wilford’s arm next day, she stood by the grave where they were burying her child.