"Don't say that," he said. "He knew what he was doing. I should not wish
any one to think otherwise. I am prouder of him than I had ever expected
to be again."

A choir of girls with glistening eyes sang sweet, sad songs at the
funeral, songs which, while they lasted, took away the ache of
bereavement, like a cool sponge pressed upon a smarting spot. It seemed
almost cruel that they must ever cease. And, after the funeral, the young
men and girls who had known George, not feeling like returning that day
to their ordinary thoughts and occupations, gathered at the house of one
of them and passed the hours till dusk, talking tenderly of the departed,
and recalling his generous traits and gracious ways.

The funeral had taken place on the day fixed for the picnic. The latter,
in consideration of the saddened temper of the young people, was put off
a fortnight.




CHAPTER III.


About half-past eight on the morning of the day set for the postponed
picnic, Henry knocked at Widow Brand's door. He had by no means forgotten
Madeline's consent to allow him to carry her basket, although two weeks
had intervened.

She came to the door herself. He had never seen her in anything that set