On Thursday morning there arrived a letter from Miss Lant, who happened to be out of town and grieved that she could not return in time for the funeral, which would be that day. There was nothing about the future, excepting a promise that the writer would come very shortly. Michael was buried at Abney Park Cemetery; no ray of sunlight fell upon his open grave, but the weather was mild, and among the budded trees passed a breath which was the promise of spring. Joseph Snowdon and the Byasses were Jane’s only companions in the mourning-carriage; but at the cemetery they were joined by Sidney Kirkwood. Jane saw him and felt the pressure of his hand, but she could neither speak nor understand anything that was said to her. On Friday morning, before she had made a show of eating the breakfast Bessie Byass prepared for her, a visitor arrived. ‘She says her name’s Mrs. Griffin,’ said Bessie, ‘and she has something very important to tell you. Do you feel you can see her?’ ‘Mrs. Griffin? Oh, I remember; she lives in the same house as Pennyloaf. Yes: let her come in.’ The woman was introduced to the Byasses’ parlour, which Bessie thought more cheerful for Jane just now than the room upstairs. ‘Have you heard anything of what’s been goin’ on with the Hewetts, Miss?’ she began. ‘No, I haven’t been able to go out this week. I’ve had trouble at home.’ ‘I see at once as you was in in mournin’, Miss, an’ I’m sorry for it. You’re lookin’ nothing like yourself. I don’t know whether it’s right to upset you with other people’s bothers, but there’s that poor Mrs. Hewett in such a state, and I said as I’d run round, ’cause she seems to think there’s nobody else can come to her help as you can. I always knew as something o’ this kind ‘ud be ‘appenin’.’ ‘But what is it? What has happened?’ Jane felt her energies revive at this appeal for help. It was the best thing that could have befallen, now that she was wearily despondent after yesterday’s suffering. ‘Her ’usband’s dead, Miss.’ ‘Dead?’ ‘But that ain’t the worst of it. He was took by the perlice last night, which they wanted him for makin’ bad money. I always have said as it’s a cruel thing that: ’cause how can you tell who gets the bad coin, an’ it may be some pore person as can’t afford to lose not a ‘apenny. But that’s what he’s been up to, an’ this long time, as it appears.’ In her dialect, which requires so many words for the narration of a simple story, Mrs. Griffin told what she knew concerning Bob Hewett’s accident and capture; his death had taken place early this morning, and Pennyloaf was all but crazy with grief. To Jane these things sounded so extraordinary that for some time she could scarcely put a question, but sat in dismay, listening to the woman’s prolix description of all that had come to pass since Wednesday evening. At length she called for Mrs. Byass, for whose benefit the story was repeated.