their homeward way. She noted a little yellow aconite that had opened
its bloom prematurely in the shadow of the wall, and the sight of it
brought her some kind of comfort. He had loved aconites and planted many
of them, though because of his winter absences years had gone by since
he had seen one with his eyes, at any rate in England. That this flower
among them all should bloom on that day and in that place seemed to her
a message and a consolation, the only one that she could find.

His sad office over, her father accompanied her home, pouring into her
ear the words of faith and hope that he was accustomed to use to those
broken by bereavement, and with him came her mother. But soon she
thanked them gently and bade them leave her to herself. Then they
brought her son to her, thinking that the sight of him would thaw her
heart. For a while the child was quiet and subdued, for there was that
about his mother's face which awed him. At last, weary of being still,
he swung round on his heel after a fashion that he had, and said:

"Cook says that now father is dead I'm master here, and everyone will
have to do what I tell them."

Barbara lifted her head and looked at him, and something in her
fawn-like eyes, a mute reproach, pierced to the boy's heart. At any
rate, he began to whimper and left the room.

There was little in the remark, which was such as a vulgar servant might
well make thoughtlessly. Yet it brought home to Barbara the grim fact
of her loss more completely perhaps than anything had done. Her beloved
husband was dead, of no more account in the world than those who had
passed from it at Eastwich a thousand years ago. He was dead, and soon
would be forgotten by all save her, and she was alone; in her heart