Honoria turned her head and looked Lady Calmady in the face. Her own was more than commonly white and very gentle in expression.
"He died in the gray of the morning, with his great head on my lap. I fancy it eased him to have something human, and—rather pitiful—close against him. Julius had just come in to see how we were getting on, I won't declare he did not say a prayer—I think he did. But I wasn't quite as steady as I might have been just then."
She turned her head, looking back at the figures upon the hearth. She was satisfied. Lady Calmady's long-sustained calm had given way, and she wept.
"We buried him, in his blanket, under the big Portugal-laurel, where the nightingale sings, at the corner of the troco-ground, close to Camp the First and Old Camp. The upper servants came, and Chaplin and Hariburt from the house-stables, and Chifney and the head-lad—and some of the gardeners. Poor, old Wenham drove up in his donkey-chair from the west lodge. Julius was there, of course. We did all things decently and in order."
Honoria's voice ceased. She sat stroking the dear hand she held and smiling to herself, notwithstanding a chokiness in her throat, for she had a comfortable belief the situation was saved.
Then Clara entered, prepared to encounter remonstrance, bearing a tray.
"It's all right, Clara," Miss St. Quentin said. "Lady Calmady is quite ready for something to eat. I've been telling her about Camp."
And Katherine, sitting upright, with great docility and a certain gentle shame, accepted food and drink.
"Since you wish it, dearest," she said, "and since Julius must not be left alone in a quite empty house."
"Our kingdom of heaven stays with us then?" Honoria exclaimed joyously.