It was a heavy and solid funeral of Victorian fashion proper to the
time. The hearse had been drawn by four black horses with black
trappings, and over the invisible coffin nodded a gloomy harvest of
black ostrich plumes. There were no flowers, and some children, who
crept forward with a little wreath of wild roses, were pushed back.

The men from the Mill helped to carry their master into the church; but
there were not enough of them to support the massive oak that held a
massive man, and John Best, Levi Baggs, Benny Cogle and Nicholas Roberts
were assisted by the undertakers.

From the first coach descended an elderly woman and a youth. The lady
was Miss Jenny Ironsyde, sister of the dead, and with her came her
nephew Daniel, the new mill-owner. He was five-and-twenty--a sallow,
strong-faced young fellow, broad in the shoulder and straight in the
back. His eyes were brown and steady, his mouth and nose indicated
decision; the funeral had not changed his cast of countenance, which was
always solemn; for, as his father before him, he lacked a sense of
humour.

Mr. Churchouse shook hands and peered into the coach.

"Where's Raymond?" he asked.

"Not come," answered Miss Ironsyde. She was a sturdy woman of
five-and-fifty, with a pleasant face and kindly eyes. But they were
clouded now and she showed agitation.

"Not come!" exclaimed Ernest with very genuine consternation.