thence to the
sweep of gravelled drive that fronted the house, where the less
privileged of those who had come to do Asshlin honour lounged singly or
in groups.

The funeral was timed to start at nine; but the concourse of
mourners--well accustomed to the delays inevitable on such an
occasion--evinced no sigh of impatience when half-past nine, and then
ten arrived, and no move had yet been made.

But all things come to those who understand the art of patience. At a
quarter past ten a thrill galvanised the lethargic crowd; and with the
recognition of the great moment for which they waited, the men began to
jostle each other and push forward towards the house, while all hats
were respectively removed.

A faint murmur of admiration and awe went up from the gathering as the
great brass-bound coffin was borne solemnly through the door and laid
upon the open bier. In silence Milbanke and young Laurence Asshlin took
their places as chief mourners, and with the inevitable confusion and
uncertainty of such a moment, the crowd of men and vehicles formed up
behind them, the horses under the bier moved slowly forward, and the
body of Denis Asshlin passed for the last time down the avenue and
through the gates of Orristown.

The funeral over, Milbanke walked back from Carrigmore alone. The
servants, who had followed their master to his resting-place in the old
graveyard, had remained in the village to enjoy the importance that the
occasion lent them; young Asshlin had disappeared at the conclusion of
the burial service; while the daughters and sister-in-law of the dead
man--in accordance with the custom of the country--had remained
secluded in their own rooms at Orristown, appearing neither at the
breakfast nor the funeral.

In a house of death, the hours that succeed the burial are, if
possible, even more melancholy than those that precede it. The
sensations of awe and responsibility have been dispersed, but as yet it
is impossible to resume the commonplace routine of life. As Milbanke
passed through the gateway and walked up the drive, ploughed into new
furrows by the long procession of cars that had followed the coffin, he
was deeply sensitive to this impression; and it fell upon him afresh
with a chill of desolation as he entered the door, still standing open,
and moved slowly across the deserted hall.

In the dining-room the curtains had been drawn back and the candles
extinguished; but the daylight seemed to fall ta