CHAPTER IV.

A BABY'S GRAVE


Sophy Chantrey had strayed absently down to the churchyard in one of
those fits of restlessness and nervous despondency which made it
impossible to her to remain in the overcrowded rooms of Bolton Villa or
in the trim flower-garden surrounding it. There was a continual vague
sense of misery in her lot, which she had not strength enough to cast
off; but at this moment she was not consciously mourning either for her
lost little one or for the absence of her husband and boy. The sharpness
and bitterness of her trouble were dulled, and her brain was confused.
Even this was a relief from the heavy-heartedness that oppressed her at
other times, and she felt a comparative comfort in sitting half-asleep
by her child's grave, dreaming confusedly of happier days. She started
almost fretfully when Ann Holland's voice broke in upon her drowsy
languor.

"Begging your pardon, Mrs. Chantrey," she said, "but I thought I might
make bold to ask what news you've had from Mr. Chantrey in Madeira?"

"David!" she answered absently; "David! Oh yes, I see. You are Miss
Holland, and he was always fond of you. Do you remember him bringing me
to see you just after our marriage? He is getting quite well very fast,
thank you. It is only eight months now till he comes home; but that is a