Wilford had spoken to her of Greenwood, but she had begged so hard that he had given up that idea, suggesting next, as more in accordance with city custom, that she remain at home while _he_ only followed to the grave; but from this Katy recoiled in such distress that he gave that lip too, and bore, magnanimously as he thought, the sight of all the Barlows standing around that grave, alike mourners with himself, and all a right to be there. Wilford felt his loss deeply, and his heart ached to its very core as he heard the gravel rattling down upon the coffin-lid which covered the beautiful child he had loved so much. But amid it all he never for a moment forgot that he was _Wilford Cameron_, and infinitely superior to the crowd around him—except, indeed, his wife, his sister, Dr. Grant, and Helen. He could bear to see them sorry, and feel that by their sorrow they honored the memory of his child. But for the rest—the village herd, with the Barlows in their train—he had no affinity, and his manner was as haughty and distant as ever as he passed through their midst back to the carriage, which took him again to the farm-house. CHAPTER XXXI. AFTER THE FUNERAL. Had there been a train back to New York that afternoon Wilford would most certainly have suggested going; but as there was none he passed the time as well as he could, finding Bell a great help to him, but wondering that she could assimilate so readily with such people, declaring herself in love with the farm-house, and saying she should like to remain there for weeks, if the days were all as sunny as this, the dahlias as gorgeously bright, and the peaches by the well as delicious and ripe. To these the city girl took readily, visiting them the last thing before retiring, while Wilford found her there when he arose next morning, her dress and slippers nearly spoiled with the heavy dew, and her hands full of the fresh fruit which Aunt Betsy knocked from the tree with a quilting rod; _her_ dress pinned around her waist, and disclosing a petticoat scrupulously clean, but patched and mended with so many different patterns and colors that the original ground was lost, and none could tell whether it had been red or black, buff or blue. Between Aunt Betsy and Bell the most amicable feeling had existed ever since the older lady had told the younger how all the summer long she had been drying fruit, “thimble-berries, blue-bries, and huckle-berries” for the soldiers, and how she was now drying peaches for Willard Buxton—once their hired man. These she should tie up in a _salt bag_, and put in the next box sent by the society of which she seemed to be head and front, “kind of fust directress” she said, and Bell was interested at once, for among the soldiers down by the Potomac was one who carried with him the whole of Bell Cameron’s heart; and who for a few days had tarried at just such a dwelling as the farm-house, writing