All was over at last,—the final prayer was said—the final benediction was spoken, and the mourners gradually dispersed. The Reverend Mr. Medwin, assisted by his young curate, had performed the ceremony, and before retiring to the vestry to take off his surplice, he paused by the newly-made grave to offer his hand and utter suitable condolences to Robin Clifford.
"It is a great and trying change for you," he said. "I suppose"—this tentatively—"I suppose you will go on with the farm?"
"As long as I live," answered Clifford, looking him steadily in the face, "Briar Farm will be what it has always been."
Mr. Medwin gave him a little appreciative bow.
"We are very glad of that—very glad indeed!" he said—"Briar Farm is a great feature—a very great feature!—indeed, one may say it is an historical possession. Something would be lacking in the neighbourhood if it were not kept up to its old tradition and—er—reputation. I think we feel that—I think we feel it, do we not, Mr. Forwood?" here turning to his curate with affable condescension.
Mark Forwood, a clever-looking young man with kind eyes and intelligent features, looked at Robin sympathetically.
"I am quite sure," he said, "that Mr. Clifford will take as much pride in the fine old place as his uncle did—but is there not Miss Jocelyn?—the daughter will probably inherit the farm, will she not, as nearest of kin?"
Mr. Medwin coughed obtrusively—and Clifford felt the warm blood rushing to his brows. Yet he resolved that the truth should be told, for the honour of the dead man's name.
"She is not my uncle's daughter," he said, quietly—"My uncle never married. He adopted her when she was an infant—and she was as dear to him as if she had been his own child. Of course she will be amply provided for—there can be no doubt of that."
Mr. Forwood raised his eyes and eyebrows together.