A few days later, Nita was laid to her rest in the churchyard at Wellfield, beside the father who had loved her so well, hard by the paved footpath leading to the church-door. Many feet would daily pass beside her grave: lovers walked through the churchyard; the old people strolled there to sit on the bench by the porch at sunset; the feet of those who were full of life and business hastened constantly to and fro; for the gates were always open, and the churchyard path was a much-used thoroughfare. When it was all over, Avice put her hand through her brother’s arm, and turned to the two other persons who had come with them as mourners–John Leyburn and Father Somerville. ‘I think we will go home alone, if you do not mind,’ she said, offering her hand first to one, and then to the other of them. Wellfield did not speak; his gaze was blank, and he scarcely knew or saw who was there, or what had passed. ‘I will come this evening and ask after you,’ said John; ‘and you can see me if you choose.’ With which, and with a mute inclination of the head to the others, he went away to his home. A new love, fresh and strong, had sprung up in his heart. But he had loved Nita well, too, with faithful, brotherly love, and his heart was heavy. Her going made a great blank space in his life. Somerville turned to Avice, and said in a low voice: ‘If it gets too much for you, Miss Wellfield’–he glanced significantly at Jerome–‘send for me, and I will come instantly.’ With which he, too, turned and left them. Slowly they walked from the churchyard, in at the Abbey gate, up the river walk, and towards the house. It was a soft, mild October noontide. The sun shone with mellow, tempered warmth; the hues were varied of the fading leaves and the autumn flowers; birds chirped here and there, and the river rushed, as the two figures, black, and, as it seemed, incongruous, paced slowly up the walk. As they entered the house, Avice said pleadingly: ‘Jerome, won’t you go and see Nita’s baby? He is such a lovely child. I am sure it would make you less grieved.’ ‘No, no! not yet, at any rate.’ ‘Do you know, that when he was born we thought he would die? Father Somerville called to ask about you–he did not know you were away–just as they were about to send for the vicar to baptise him; and he offered to do it, so they let him, for fear it should be too late if they waited–for his poor little life seemed to hang by a thread.’ ‘Why do you say _they_?’ asked her brother. ‘Simply because to me it seemed absurd–as if it made any difference to the poor little darling whether he was baptised or not! Will you not go and see him, Jerome?’ ‘Perhaps–presently. So _Somerville_ baptised him!’ he said dreamily; and then added: ‘I am going upstairs to her sitting-room.’ ‘Don’t stay there too long, Jerome. It makes me so unhappy to think of you.’ ‘You must not mind me,’ was all he said, as he slowly took his way upstairs.