Lucy stood on one side of her, silent and pale with down-dropt eyes; Fanny sobbed vociferously on the other. Lord Watergate faced them with bent head. The tears rolled down Fred Devonshire's face as the burial service proceeded. Aunt Caroline looked like a vindictive ghost. Uncle Septimus wept silently.
It seemed a hideous act of cruelty to turn away at last and leave the poor child lying there alone, while the sexton shovelled the loose earth on to her coffin; hideous, but inevitable; and at midday Gertrude and Lucy drove back in the dismal coach to Baker Street, where Mr. Maryon had put up alternate shutters in the shop-window, and the umbrella-maker had drawn down his blinds.
Gertrude, as she lay awake that night, heard the rain beating against the window-panes, and shuddered.
CHAPTER XXII. HOPE AND A FRIEND.
Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love.
Sonnets from the Portuguese.