“Oh, no, my child,” said the earl reassuringly, “there would be nothing of that kind; so old a gentleman could not endure a long-drawn suspense like that.  There will be three funerals.”

Lady Rossmore looked up surprised, and said: 

“How is that going to make it easier for him?  It’s a total mistake, to my mind.  He ought to be buried all at once; I’m sure of it.”

“I should think so, too,” said Hawkins.

“And certainly I should,” said the daughter.

“You are all wrong,” said the earl.  “You will see it yourselves, if you think.  Only one of these baskets has got him in it.”

“Very well, then,” said Lady Rossmore, “the thing is perfectly simple—­ bury that one.”

“Certainly,” said Lady Gwendolen.

“But it is not simple,” said the earl, “because we do not know which basket he is in.  We know he is in one of them, but that is all we do know.  You see now, I reckon, that I was right; it takes three funerals, there is no other way.”

“And three graves and three monuments and three inscriptions?” asked the daughter.

“Well—­yes—­to do it right.  That is what I should do.”

“It could not be done so, father.  Each of the inscriptions would give the same name and the same facts and say he was under each and all of these monuments, and that would not answer at all.”

The earl nestled uncomfortably in his chair.

“No,” he said, “that is an objection.  That is a serious objection.  I see no way out.”

There was a general silence for a while.  Then Hawkins said: 

“It seems to me that if we mixed the three ramifications together—­”

The earl grasped him by the hand and shook it gratefully.

“It solves the whole problem,” he said.  “One ship, one funeral, one grave, one monument—­it is admirably conceived.  It does you honor, Major Hawkins, it has relieved me of a most painful embarrassment and distress, and it will save that poor stricken old father much suffering.  Yes, he shall go over in one basket.”

“When?” asked the wife.

“To-morrow-immediately, of course.”

“I would wait, Mulberry.”

“Wait?  Why?”

“You don’t want to break that childless old man’s heart.”

“God knows I don’t!”

“Then wait till he sends for his son’s remains.  If you do that, you will never have to give him the last and sharpest pain a parent can know—­ I mean, the certainty that his son is dead.  For he will never send.”

“Why won’t he?”

“Because to send—­and find out the truth—­would rob him of the one precious thing left him, the uncertainty, the dim hope that maybe, after all, his boy escaped, and he will see him again some day.”

“Why Polly, he’ll know by the papers that he was burnt up.”

“He won’t let himself believe the papers; he’ll argue against anything and everything that proves his son is dead; and he will keep that up and live on it, and on nothing else till he dies.  But if the remains should actually come, and be put before that poor old dim-hoping soul—­”