“Thank you.  So—­this—­is what my husband died for.  Drive on, please.”

Her eyes, as she lifted them to give the order, rested for a moment on Taffy—­with how much scorn he cared not, could he have leapt and intercepted Lizzie’s retort.

“And why not?  A son’s a son—­curse you!—­though he was your man!”

It seemed she did not hear; or hearing, did not understand.  Her eyes hardened their fire on Taffy, and he, lapped in their scorn, thanked God she had not understood.

“Drive on, please.”

The coachman lowered his whip.  The horses moved forward at a slow walk; the carriage rolled silently away into the darkness.  She had not understood.  Taffy glanced at the faces about him.

“Ah, poor lady!” said someone.  But no one had understood.

They found George’s body next morning on the sands a little below the foot-bridge.  He lay there in the morning sunshine as though asleep, with an arm flung above his head and on his face the easy smile for which men and women had liked him throughout his careless life.

The inquest was held next day, in the library at Carwithiel.  Sir Harry insisted on being present, and sat beside the coroner.  During Taffy’s examination his lips were pursed up as though whistling a silent tune.  Once or twice he nodded his head.

Taffy gave his evidence discreetly.  The child had been lost; had been found in a perilous position.  He and deceased had gone together to the rescue.  On reaching the child, deceased—­against advice—­had attempted to return across the sands and had fallen into difficulties.  In these his first thought had been for the child, whom he had passed to witness to drag out of danger.  When it came to deceased’s turn the crutch, on which all depended, had parted in two, and he had been swept away by the tide.

At the conclusion of the story Sir Harry took snuff and nodded twice.  Taffy wondered how much he knew.  The jury, under the coroner’s direction, brought in a verdict of “death by misadventure,” and added a word or two in praise of the dead man’s gallantry.  The coroner complimented Taffy warmly and promised to refer the case to the Royal Humane Society for public recognition.  The jury nodded, and one or two said “Hear, hear!” Taffy hoped fervently he would do nothing of the sort.

The funeral took place on the fourth day, at nine o’clock in the morning.  Such—­in the day I write of—­was the custom of the country.  Friends who lived at a distance rose and shaved by candle-light, and daybreak found them horsed and well on their way to the house of mourning, their errand announced by the long black streamers tied about their hats.  The sad business over and done with, these guests returned to the house, where until noon a mighty breakfast lasted and all were welcome.  Their black habiliments and lowered voices alone marked the difference between it and a hunting-breakfast.