by the grave where they were burying her child.

Wilford had spoken to her of Greenwood, but she had begged so hard that
he had given up that idea, suggesting next, as more in accordance with
city custom, that she remain at home while he only followed to the
grave; but from this Katy recoiled in such distress that he gave up too,
and bore, magnanimously, as he thought, the sight of all the Barlows
standing around that grave, alike mourners with himself, and all a right
to be there. Wilford felt his loss deeply, and his heart ached to its
very core as he heard the gravel rattling down upon the coffin lid which
covered the beautiful child he had loved so much. But amid it all he
never for a moment forgot that he was Wilford Cameron, and infinitely
superior to the crowd around him--except, indeed, his wife, his sister,
Dr. Grant, and Helen. He could bear to see them sorry, and feel that by
their sorrow they honored the memory of his child. But for the rest--the
village herd, with the Barlows in their train--he had no affinity, and
his manner was as haughty and distant as ever as he passed through their
midst back to the carriage, which took him again to the farmhouse.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

AFTER THE FUNERAL.

Had there been a train back to New York that afternoon Wilford would
most certainly have suggested going, but as there was none he passed the
time as well as he could, finding Bell a great help to him, but
wondering that she could assimilate so readily with such people,
declaring herself in love with the farmhouse, and saying she should like
to remain there for weeks, if the days were all as sunny as this, the
dahlias as gorgeously bright, and the peaches by the well as delicious
and ripe. To these the city girl took readily, visiting them the last
thing before retiring, while Wilford found her there when he arose next
morning, her dress and slippers nearly spoiled with the heavy dew, and
her hands full of the fresh fruit which Aunt Betsy knocked from the tree
with a quilting rod; her dress pinned around her waist, and disclosing a
petticoat scrupulously clean, but patched and mended with so many
different patterns and colors that the original ground was lost, and
none could tell whether it had been red or black, buff or blue. Between
Aunt Betsy and Bell the most amicable feeling had existed ever since the
older lady had told the younger how all the summer long she had been
drying fruit, "thimble-berries, blue-