anxious to defer to the words of a dying
man. "Uncle, may I dare to say that I hope you will live yet?" he gently
said.

"It is of no use, Lionel. The world is closing for me."

It was closing for him even then, as he spoke--closing rapidly. Before
another afternoon had come round, the master of Verner's Pride had
quitted that, and all other pride, for ever.

CHAPTER XVII.

DISAPPEARED.

Sweeping down from Verner's Pride towards the church at Deerham came the
long funeral train--mutes with their plumes and batons, relays of
bearers, the bier. It had been Mr. Verner's express desire that he
should be carried to the grave, that no hearse or coaches should be
used.

"Bury me quietly; bury me without show," had been his charge. And yet a
show it was, that procession, if only from its length. Close to the
coffin walked the heir, Lionel; Jan and Dr. West came next; Mr.
Bitterworth and Sir Rufus Hautley. Other gentlemen were there, followers
or pall-bearers; the tenants followed; the servants came last. A long,
long line, slow and black; and spectators gathered on the side of the
road, underneath the hedges, and in the upper windows at Deerham, to see
it pass. The under windows were closed.

A brave heir, a brave master of Verner's Pride! was the universal
thought, as eyes were turned on Lionel, on his tall, noble form, his
pale face stilled to calmness, his dark hair. He chose to walk
bare-headed, his hat, with its sweeping streamers, borne in his hand.
When handed to him in the hall he had not put it on, but went out as he
was, carrying it. The rest, those behind him, did not follow his
example; they assumed their hats; but Lionel was probably unconscious of
it, probably he never gave it a thought.

At the churchyard entrance they were met by the Vicar of Deerham, the
Reverend James Bourne. All hats came off then, as his voice rose,
commencing the service. Nearly one of the last walked old Matthew Frost.
He had not gone to Verner's Pride, the walk so far was beyond him now,
but fell in at the churchyard gate. The fine, upright, hale man whom you
saw at the commencement of this history had changed into a bowed, broken
mourner. Rachel's fate had done that. On the right as they moved up the
churchyard, was the mound which covered the remains of Rachel. Old
Matthew did not look towards it; as he passed it he only bent his head
the lower. But many others turned their heads; they remembered her that
day.

In t