to ask you first, Louis, about arrangements."
"The funeral is to be on Thursday. There is no reason to make it any later. It will be here, of course."
"She would have wished that," murmured Marianne "—to lie in the little churchyard so near her own home. Oh, Louis, Louis! I can't realize she's gone."
Louis listened to her as in a dream, but spoke very gently:
"It has been a terrible shock to you. I wish you could have had more preparation, but no one anticipated it until the very day before, when I sent you the first telegram."
"I know—I know. Can you bear to tell me how it all was?"
There was little enough to tell, but Louis told her briefly of his wife's short illness and painless death. She had died unconscious.
"No words—no message?" sobbed Mrs. Lloyd-Evans.
"She did not know that she was dying."
"The clergyman?"
"I did not send for him," replied Louis quietly.
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had long known that her brother-in-law was "nothing," as she phrased it, with regard to religious convictions, and she had often feared that poor Esmée, since her marriage, had given up even going to church, which, to Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, was synonymous with atheism. She said no more, but bade Louis an emotional good-night, and went slowly up to her room, although it was very little after nine.
Louis, left alone at last, went out into the dusk of the garden.
"Esmée! Esmée!"
He wondered if he could retain his sanity.
"Zella, my child, have you nothing black to put on?" Mrs. Lloyd-Evans had never addressed her niece as "my child before, and had she done so Zella would have resented it extremely, but now it appeared to them both as appropriately solemn.
next morning, looked at her aunt with vague, dark circled eyes. She was still in her white petticoat, and looked pathetically small and childish.
"I hadn't thought of that, Aunt Marianne," she faltered. "Must I put on black things?"
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans thought that the gentlest of hints might not come amiss, in order to counteract any possible unconventional ideas on the part of poor Louis, who, after all, was far more French than English.
"You see, dear," she said very gently, " it is as a mark of respect. One doesn't want anyone—the servants or anybody—to think one doesn't care. You will wear mourning a year for your dear, dear mother. That is what is customary."
"Will papa want me to ? asked Zella unexpectedly.
"He will want you to do what is right, darling. Aunt Marianne will talk to him about it."
Mrs. Lloyd-Evans habitually spoke of herself in the third person when addressing children.
"Now let me see what you've got," she continued, in the same gentle, inflexible voice.
"I have a black serge skirt, but not any blouses," said Zella, pulling open a drawer.
"Perhaps a white one would do for to-day. Or look, dear, this check one is black and grey: that will do better still; it is nice and dark."
"It is one that—that—she hated. I have hardly ever worn it," said Zella, beginning to cry again.
"You mustn't give way, Zella dear. That blouse and skirt must do for to-day, and I will telegraph for real mourning at once. You see, my poor darling, you must have it for Thursday; but there will just be time for it to arrive. To-day is Tuesday."
"Only Tuesday," thought Zella miserably, as she put on the check blouse and black skirt. "It was only Sunday evening that mother died, and it feels like days and days."
She wondered drearily if all her life she would be as miserable as she was now, and if so how she should bear it.
Presently she mechanically took up the broad scarlet ribbon that habitually tied back her brown hair.
"Haven't you a black ribbon, dear ?" asked her aunt softly.
Zella had no black ribbon, and Mrs. Lloyd-Evans told her to plait her hair instead of tying it. It altered her appearance and made her look older.
They went slowly downstairs, Mrs. Lloyd-Evans holding her niece's hand as though she were a small child, and squeezing it convulsively as they passed the closed door of the room which had been Esmée's.
"It's so dreadful to have meals and everything just the same," said poor Zella as they passed through the hall to the dining-room.
"One must be brave, dear," replied her aunt.
Louis de Kervoyou was in the dining-room when they entered, and Mrs. Lloyd-Evans thought that he looked ten years older. When he had spoken the briefest of good-mornings, he looked rather strangely at Zella in her dark clothes and the unaccustomed plaited-back hair, but he said nothing. Mrs. Lloyd-Evans, who had rather dreaded some eccentric objection to conventional mourning, felt relieved, and the moment the silent breakfast was over she hastened to write out a telegraphic order to London for the blackest of garments on Zella's behalf.
This done, she again sought her niece.
"Zella, dear child," she said tremulously, "you know that—that it"—she could not bring herself to use the word "funeral "—" is to be on Thursday. Don't you wish to come with Aunt Marianne and see dearest mother for the last time? I'm afraid that a little later on it won't be possible any longer."
Zella did not understand, and looked up with miserable bewildered eyes.
"Papa said not," she faltered.
"Darling, you must have misunderstood him! Surely he would wish you to go in just for a little while—surely you wish it yourself ?"
"Yes, oh yes! I did ask him, but he said not."
Zella felt a strange shame when she saw Aunt Marianne's disapproval. Of course it was right that she should be allowed to go and say a last good-bye to her dear, dear mother, and evidently Aunt Marianne had expected it.
"Wait here a moment, dear child," said Mrs. Lloyd-Evans.
She went downstairs and found Louis de Kervoyou wearily tearing open a number of telegrams of condolence.
"I have put 'No flowers ' in the obituary notice," he said, "but one or two wreaths have arrived. Perhaps you would be goad enough to see to them. And let Zella help you., Anything would be better for her than doing nothing."
"But why have you said 'No flowers,' Louis? It is such a beautiful idea, to give flowers as a token of love and remembrance. I know that Henry is bringing down a cross of lilies on Thursday, for I particularly told him to write for one from Soloman's at once."
"Yes—yes. Of course yours and Henry's shall be there," said poor Louis patiently. "That is not the same thing as a quantity of wreaths, which, though kindly meant, give a good deal of extra trouble."
"She would have liked one from Henry and me,"
