They watched the solitary figure as it showed black against the steep chalky road in the distance.
“Yon’s an afflicted woman,” said one, “for all she carries herself so high under it.”
“She’s the only widder among all the Whites hereabouts,” remarked Mrs Pinhorn. “We needn’t call her ‘Mrs White on the hill’ no longer, poor soul.”
“It’s a mercy she’s got the child,” said another neighbour, “if the Lord spares it to her.”
“The christening’s to be on Sunday,” added a third. “I do wonder if she’ll call it that outlandish name now.”
There was not much time to wonder, for Sunday soon came, and the Widow White, as she was to be called henceforth, was at the church, stern, sad, and calm, with her child in her arms. It was an April morning, breezy and soft; the uncertain sunshine darted hither and thither, now touching the newly turned earth of Jem’s grave, and now peering through the church window to rest on the tiny face of his little daughter in the rector’s arms at the font. All the village had come to see, for this christening was felt to be one of more than common interest, and while the service went on there was not one inattentive ear.
Foremost stood Mrs Greenways, her white handkerchief displayed for immediate use, and the expression in her face struggling between real compassion and an eager desire to lose nothing that was passing; presently she craned her neck forward a little, for an important point was reached—
“Name this child,” said the rector.
There was such deep silence in the church that the lowest whisper would have been audible, and Mrs Leigh’s voice was heard distinctly in the farthest corner, when she answered “Lilac.”