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Lady Calmady's long-sustained calm had given way, and she wept. "We buried him, in his blanket, under the big Portugal-laurel, where the nightingale sings, at the corner of the troco-ground, close to Camp the First and Old Camp. The upper servants came, and Chaplin and Hariburt from the house-stables, and Chifney and the head-lad and some of the gardeners.
They moved on a few steps in silence. Then, careless of all the rapture its notification of the passing of time might cut short, the clock at the house-stables chimed the half-hour. Honoria paused in her gentle walk. "Bedtime, Dick," she cried. "All right," the boy returned.
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