It soon came—the blessed day of deliverance, the sad day of bereavement¹; and in the second week of March they carried him to the grave. He was buried as he had desired: there was no hearse, no mourning-coach; his coffin² was borne by twelve of his humbler hearers, who relieved each other by turns. But he was followed by a long procession of mourning friends, women as well as men.  
Slowly, amid deep silence, the dark stream passed along Orchard³ Street, where eighteen months before the Evangelical curate had been saluted⁴ with hooting⁵ and hisses⁶. Mr. Jerome and Mr. Landor were the eldest⁷ pall-bearers; and behind the coffin, led by Mr. Tryan’s cousin, walked Janet, in quiet submissive sorrow. She could not feel that he was quite gone from her; the unseen world lay so very near her—it held all that had ever stirred the depths of anguish⁸ and joy within her.
 
It was a cloudy morning, and had been raining when they left Holly⁹ Mount; but as they walked, the sun broke out, and the clouds were rolling off in large masses when they entered the churchyard, and Mr. Walsh’s voice was heard saying, ‘I am the Resurrection and the Life’. The faces were not hard at this funeral; the burial-service was not a hollow form. Every heart there was filled with the memory of a man who, through a self-sacrificing life and in a painful death, had been sustained by the faith which fills that form with breath and substance.
 
When Janet left the grave, she did not return to Holly Mount; she went to her home in Orchard Street, where her mother was waiting to receive her. She said quite calmly, ‘Let us walk round the garden, mother.’ And they walked round in silence, with their hands clasped together, looking at the golden crocuses bright in............