Three days later they carried young Phillip Temple to his grave, and the new heir came to Woodlea as a mourner. His uncle had written to John Temple to tell him of the sad and untimely death of his son, and John Temple had received the news with a little shrug.

“Poor lad, what a pity, and he was such a fine boy,” he said to the friend who was dining with him, when the squire’s black-edged letter was placed in his hand.

“But this will make a great difference to you?” answered his friend.

It was then John Temple gave the little shrug.

“It will give me a good many more thousands a year than I have now hundreds,” he said, “but that will be about the only difference. The poor lad with his youth would have enjoyed the old man’s money more than I shall. I am too old to believe in the pleasures of riches.”

“I am not, then,” replied the friend enviously; “you can buy anything.”

“No,” answered John Temple, and his brow darkened.

He was a good-looking man, this new heir of Woodlea, tall and slender, and with a pair of keen gray eyes beneath his dark brows. He looked also fairly-well content with life, and took most things calmly, if not with absolute indifference.

“I have been able to pay my way, and what more does a man want?” he said, presently, as his friend still harped on his new inheritance. “To be in debt is disgusting; I should work hard to keep out of it.”

“It is very difficult to keep out of it,” was the reply he received.

“You must cut your coat according to your cloth,” answered John Temple, smiling. “Had I lived extravagantly I should now have been in debt, but I have not, and therefore I have no duns.”

What he said of himself was quite true. He had lived within his income, and was not therefore greatly elated by learning that he would probably soon be a rich man. Perhaps he affected to care less about his change of fortune than he really did. He was cynic enough for this. At all events he accepted his uncle’s invitation to be present at his poor young cousin’s funeral, and he wrote in becoming and even feeling terms of the sad loss the squire had sustained.

Mr. Temple read this letter with a sigh, but he was not displeased with it. He did not show it to his wife, who was prostrate with grief. Mrs. Temple’s condition was indeed truly pitiable. Her one moan was she had no one to love her now, and she refused to be comforted.

“She will be better,” said Mrs. Layton to the squire, “when it is all over. Rachel is, and always was, very emotional.”

Mrs. Layton meant that her daughter would be better when her young son was in his grave. But Mr. Temple did not consult his mother-in-law on the subject. He fixed the day for the poor lad’s burial himself, and he invited the funeral guests. And it was only after John Temple had accepted his invitation that he told Mrs. Layton that he expected his nephew.

Mrs. Layton went home to the vicarage brimful of the news.

“Of course this young man is the heir now,” she said to her husband; “but surely Rachel will have the Hall for her life? We must see about this, James.”

The Rev. James Layton, an easy-going man, looked up from the composition of his weekly sermon as his wife spoke.

“I dare say it will be all right,” he said.

“But it may not be; this young man is sure to marry after the squire’s death, and he looks extremely ill and shaken, and I can not have Rachel’s home interfered with.”

“You are always looking forward,” replied the Rev. James, pettishly. “I’m busy, I’ve my sermon to finish.”

“The sermon can wait, and is of no consequence; but Rachel’s future is. You must speak to the squire about it at once.”

“I consider it would be absolutely indecent, Sarah, to do so at present.”

“That’s all very fine, but the poor old man may take a fit any day, and then where should we be—with a new madam at the Hall, after all Rachel has gone through?”

“She always seemed right enough till the poor lad died.”

“Still, she married an old man, and should therefore have the benefit of it.”

“Well, wait until the poor boy is in his grave, at any rate.”

“Dilatory as usual! I always said, James, you would never get on, because you are not pushing enough. You do not court the bishop like the other greedy parsons, and just look where you are. At sixty-nine, in a small vicarage like Woodlea, with under four hundred a year! You can not expect me to have patience; and how about poor Rachel? You’ll allow this young man, John Temple, to come down to the funeral, and perhaps obtain power over a silly old man, and your own daughter may be left out in the cold! And all because you won’t speak a few words, and insist on the Hall being settled on her.”

“Speak yourself,” said Mr. Layton, impatiently.

“I would at once, only I know he won’t listen to me. He’s got some stupid grudge into his silly old head, and never consults me about anything. You are the person to do it, and you must do it.”

“Well, go away for the present, at any rate.”

“Oh, yes, just like you! Wait till young Temple arrives; wait until it is too late, and then you will be satisfied!”

Having thus reproved her husband at the vicarage, Mrs. Layton crossed over to the hall for the purpose of reproving her daughter. And as she entered the wide domains, and looked around at the luxuries and beauties of the place, she naturally felt anxious to keep them in the family.

“Rachel must rouse herself,” she mentally reflected, as she ascended the broad staircase. “Now the poor boy is gone, she has lost a bond between herself and the old man, and therefore she must exert herself to keep up her influence.”

She thought this again as she walked along the wide, softly-carpeted corridor that led to her daughter’s room.

“What a nice house!” she reflected. “No one must come here. No interloper; no new squire and his wife!”

She knew that Mrs. Temple’s marriage settlement was everything that was satisfactory. She had seen to that herself when the gray-haired man had gone courting her dark-haired girl. She had taken full advantage of an old wooer’s folly, and seen that he paid a heavy price for his bargain. But nothing had been said about the Hall. Then, when the boy was born nothing naturally was said of it. His mother would live, of course, with the young heir. But now the young heir was dead, and some new arrangement must be made.

Mrs. Layton knew she had no easy task before her, when she rapped at the door of her daughter’s bedroom. Rachel Layton had been difficult to manage, but Rachel Temple had developed into a very wayward woman. As a rule, she was on fairly good terms with her mother, but she brooked no interference. Mrs. Layton derived many benefits from her connection with the Hall. Her mutton, her butter, her eggs, her vegetables, all came from the same source. The remembrance of this inspirited her. The Hall must remain Rachel’s, she told herself, cost her what it would.

It was the day before the poor boy’s funeral, and John Temple was expected at Woodlea early on the following morning. There was, therefore, no time to lose. So Mrs. Layton plucked up her courage and entered her daughter’s apartment, determined to speak her mind.

Mrs. Temple was standing at one of the windows gazing listlessly out. She could not rest, and her handsome face was lined and drawn with her mental sufferings. She looked years older since her boy’s death, and she glanced round as her mother entered the room without speaking.

“Well, my dear,” said Mrs. Layton, “how are you feeling now?”

“How can you ask?” answered the unhappy woman, “when everything is ended for me—that is how I feel.”

“But, my dear Rachel, this is folly; everything is not ended for you, and you have, I am sure, many years of happy life before you yet.”

“Happy life! Very happy life—alone in the world.”

“You may not always be alone, Rachel, and I have come here just now, my dear, especially to speak of your future.”

“I have no future.”

“My dear child, yes; you have had a great loss—”

“No one knows what he was to me!” interrupted Mrs. Temple, passionately, and she began to wander up and down the room wringing her hands as she went. “My darling, my boy, and to think that after to-morrow I shall see him no more—that they will take away from me even what is left!”

“Rachel, has Mr. Temple told you that—his nephew is coming to-morrow?”

“No,” replied Mrs. Temple, listlessly.

“He is, then—Mr. John Temple—who, of course, is now Mr. Temple’s successor.”

“Is he coming so quickly to take my darling’s place!” cried Mrs. Temple, with a sudden flash of indignation. “But what matter, what matter!”

“It is a matter, my dear, and it is about this that I wish to speak to you. When you married, the Hall was not included in your settlement, as I now see that it ought to have been, but—we could not foresee your sad loss. Now this young man will succeed Mr. Temple, but he ought not to have the Hall in your lifetime. That must be secured to you, and before this young man arrives I think Mr. Temple ought to be spoken to on the subject, and I should advise you to exert yourself, my dear, and prevent young Mr. Temple gaining an undue influence over your husband.”

Mrs. Temple fixed her large dark eyes on her mother’s face.

“What are you talking of?” she said.

“I am telling you, my dear Rachel, only you do not seem to attend to what I am saying, that this young man is coming, who is now your husband’s heir, and naturally he will try to obtain power over his uncle, which you should not allow. And, as I told you before, this house is not settled on you, therefore—”

“Be silent, mother, be silent!” cried Mrs. Temple with strong indignation, lifting up her hands. “What, when my darling’s not gone from it yet—when he is still under the roof—you talk of such things! You always were a wicked, worldly woman, but this is too much—too much!”

Her tone and manner frightened Mrs. Layton. “I only meant, my dear—” she began.

“Go away, leave me alone!” went on Mrs. Temple, and Mrs. Layton thought it best to go.

“She has no common sense,” she reflected as she went back to the vicarage. “However, I have done my duty, and whatever happens I am not to blame.”

But in spite of this “little disagreement” with her daughter, as she called it, Mrs. Layton did not fail to appear the next day at the Hall. She went early, “as of course I must see after the sad arrangements,” she told her husband, “as Rachel is quite incapable of doing so, and I consider Mrs. Borridge, the housekeeper, anything but what she ought to be.”

So she interfered in the sad arrangements, and she saw John Temple, the new heir, arrive with jealous eyes. She admitted, however, that he was good-looking, “which makes it worse,” she mentally added. She saw also the squire receive him, and introduce him to the funeral guests as “my nephew,” with a certain sad emphasis on the words that Mrs. Layton fully understood.

All the gentlemen in the neighborhood had been invited, and nearly all arrived at the Hall to follow poor young Phillip Temple to his grave. The squire of Woodlea was universally respected, and the guests looked at his bowed gray head, and grasped his thin trembling hand with deep sympathy. It was a truly affecting sight as the slim coffin was borne into the churchyard followed by the childless old man. As on the day of the poor lad’s death the sun was shining brightly, and in the pretty spot where they laid him, green trees were dappling the green grass.

Groups of the villagers stood around to watch the sad procession, and talk of the dead boy. They had all known him; he had grown up in their midst, and the tragic accident that had ended in his death had occurred in a field close to the churchyard.

John Temple stood by his uncle’s side during the service, and he noticed just at its close a girl dressed in white, and wearing white ribbons, step forward and approach the open grave.

She was carrying a large white wreath, and her eyes were full of tears, and she hesitated as if she did not like to go through the group of mourners around the grave. She was close to John Temple, and he turned round and addressed her.

“Do you wish to place that wreath in the grave?” he said, kindly.

“Yes, but I—” faltered the girl.

“Shall I place it for you?” asked John Temple.

“Oh, thank you, if you would,” she answered, gratefully.

He took it from her hands, and laid it gently and reverently on his young cousin’s coffin. There were many other flowers, and as John Temple placed hers, the girl took courage and went up close to the grave and looked in.

“He was so fond of flowers,” she said in a low tone, and her tears fell fast.

“Poor boy,” answered John Temple, and then he looked at the girl and wondered who she was.

But the service was over and the mourners turned away, and John went with them. He glanced back and saw that the girl in the white frock was still standing by the grave. Others, too, had now approached it; gone to take a last look at the young heir.

The funeral guests did not return to the Hall, except John Temple, who drove there with his uncle. The squire was deeply affected, and John not unmoved.

“He—he was everything to me,” faltered the squire.

“I feel the deepest sympathy for you,” answered John Temple, and his words were actually true.

It was a short but dreary drive, and when they reached the Hall the squire asked John Temple to excuse him until dinner time.

“I feel I am unfit company for anyone,” he said, “but make yourself quite at home in the house that will be yours some day,” he added, with melancholy truth.

Thus John was at liberty to pass the time as best he could. He went to the Hall door, and looked out on the green park. It was a tempting vista. His uncle’s words not unnaturally recurred to his mind. So this was his inheritance; this wide wooded domain, this stately mansion house. The son of a younger son, he had been brought up in a very modest home, and he remembered it at this moment. It was certainly a great change, and John Temple thought of it more than once as he walked straight across the park, and finally reached a long country lane scented with meadow-sweet, and its hedges starred with the wild rose.

Temple lit a cigarette, and sat down on a rustic stile. The whole scene was so rural it half-amused John. The hayfield near; the cows standing in another field beneath some trees for shelter from the sun; the distant gurgle of a brook.

“It only wants the pretty milkmaid,” thought John, with a smile.

This idea had scarcely crossed his mind when he saw advancing down the lane the same girl in the white frock that he had seen by his young cousin’s grave. She was gathering the roses from the hedge rows, and placing them in a small basket whenever she saw one that struck her fancy. She was intent on her task, and never saw Temple seated on his stile until she was quite close to him. Thus, he had an opportunity of watching her, as she stretched out her hands to pluck the flowers.

It was a charming face, fresh, young, and beautiful, and Temple was half sorry when, with a little start and a blush, she perceived how near she was to him. He rose and raised his hat, and the girl looked at him half-shyly, and then addressed him.

“You are the gentleman, are you not,” she said, “who so kindly placed my wreath in dear Phil Temple’s grave?”

“Yes,” answered John Temple, “it was very kind of you to bring one.”

“Oh, no,” said the girl, quickly, “we knew him so well, you know. He was the dearest boy, and—and his death was so dreadfully sad.”

“Most sad, indeed; I am truly sorry for his poor father.”

“Oh! it is terrible; terrible for every boy that was playing in the field.”

“How did it happen?” asked Temple.

“They were running after the ball, all the boys at Mr. Carson’s school, and Phil, they think, fell, and there was a rush of boys, and someone must have struck his head with his foot. No one will say they did, but some one must. My young brother was playing, but no one seems to be able to say how it happened. But he never spoke again; he was unconscious from the first.”

“It must have cast quite a gloom over the neighborhood.”

“It has been dreadful for everyone; everyone loved him, and to think now—”

“Well, his sufferings are over.”

The girl raised her beautiful eyes with a look of surprise to John Temple’s face.

“But life is not suffering,” she said. “His life was all brightness—but you did not know him?”

“Yes, I did, slightly; he was a fine boy, and I was very sorry indeed to hear of his death. I am his cousin, John Temple.”

“I did not know; I heard the squire’s nephew was coming—but of course I did not know—”

“And you? Do you live near here?”

“Yes, at Woodside Farm; that white house there, yonder in the fields.”

She pointed as she spoke to a long, low house standing some half a mile distant. As she did so John Temple looked again at her lovely face. Never in all his wanderings, he was telling himself, had he seen one half so fair. The coloring and features were alike perfect. Perhaps his gaze was too steadfast, for she dropped her eyes and suddenly turned away.

“I must be going now,” she said; “I came to get those roses to make another wreath—good-morning.” And she bowed and turned away.

Her manner was so simple and dignified that John Temple felt it would be a liberty to follow her, or try to detain her. Therefore he turned his footsteps once more in the direction of the Hall, and on his way thither he encountered Mr. Layton, the vicar of Woodlea, who had read the service over poor young Phillip’s grave.

The vicar had noticed John Temple among the mourners; he was a connection of the family, and he stopped.

“I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. John Temple?” he said.

“Yes,” answered John, touching his hat.

“I am the vicar here; my daughter married your uncle. Ah—this has been a sad affair.”

“Most sad—can you tell me the name of the young lady you must have just met?”

The vicar smiled.

“Ah, that is our village beauty,” he said; “they call her the Mayflower.”