During the week that followed Leonard's death, there was a succession of heavy storms. Chill sodden winds drove June from the fields, and substituted a bleak mock-autumn. Sparrow Hall was full of the moaning winds--they sped down the passages, and throbbed against the doors, they whistled through cracks and chinks, and rumbled in the chimneys. Janey was in bed for the first few days; she had collapsed utterly. The two blows which had fallen on her almost together had smitten her into a kind of numbness, in which she lay, white and stiff and tearless, through the windy hours. Nigel scarcely ever left her, and he scarcely ever spoke to her--they just crouched together, she on the bed, he on a chair beside it, their fingers twined, both dumbly busy with the problems of death and anguish that had assaulted their lives. Meantime the routine of the house and farm remained unbroken. The "man" looked after the latter, and through the former moved a figure that seemed strangely out of place. When "Tottie Coughdrop" arrived the morning after Len's death, she proved to be no more or less than a novice from St. Margaret's Convent, and finding her ministrations as truly needed as if her patient had been alive, she did not leave on finding him dead. She nursed Janey--at least she did for her the little that Nigel could not do; she dusted and cooked; she made Furlonger eat, the stiffest duty of all. It used to hurt Nigel when he thought how Len would have enjoyed seeing him sit down to supper every night with a nun. Novice Unity Agnes also undertook all the arrangements for the funeral--which had always been a nightmare to Nigel and Janey. Moreover, the day before, she went to East Grinstead and bought a black skirt and blouse and hat for Janey, who but for her would never have thought of going into mourning at all; and though her charity was not able to overcome her diffidence and buy a mourning suit for Nigel, she sewed black bands on all his coats. That was how it happened that the funeral of Leonard Furlonger was such a surprise to the inhabitants of the Three Counties. The coffin was met at the church door by the choir headed by a crucifix, and the service was read by a priest in a black cope. There were hymns too--Novice Unity Agnes's favourites, all about as appropriate as "How doth the little busy bee"--and incense, and a little collection of nuns, persuaded by the kind-hearted novice to swell the scanty number of mourners. In fact, as Nigel remarked bitterly, the whole thing was a joke, and it was a shame Len had missed it. He and Janey walked home alone, arm in arm, through the wet lanes. As usual, they did not speak, but they strained close together as the solitude of the fields crept round them. The rain had cleared, but the wind was still romping in the hedges--little tearful spreads of sky showed among the clouds, very pale and rain-washed, soon swallowed up by moving shapes of storm.