Kenneth stammered brokenly his thanks and an attempt at the impossible translating into words of sympathy for bereavement and sense of loss.
"I know, I know," said the Colonel, hastily. He seized and pressed Kenneth's hand strongly. "That is all right, too. It must be all right. I know you loved her, children; and she loved you. She must be very happy now in your happiness."
"If there is anything at all I can do, sir" stammered Kenneth, "anything at all"
"I know, I know, my boy. I'll call on you," and suddenly the Colonel turned from them and walked down through the oak trees, his step firm, his shoulders squared, his tall figure erect, his head high.
Daphne cast herself sobbing on Kenneth's breast.
"Oh, I wish he weren't like that!" she cried. "He's wonderful; but he breaks my heart! If he'd only give way a little! He's too tight-strung. He sits by her with that same look in his eyes!"
II
The funeral was the most extraordinary in the history of Arguello, some whispered. Certainly it was well attended. From all directions came people in vehicles and people on horseback. A returned traveller familiar with the old days would have said that another fiesta was forward at La Corona del Monte, another of Allie's birthday feasts to which came all the world and his wife. Except that on closer inspection he could not but have perceived that every form was clad in decent black, every face wore a proper expression of gravity, manners were subdued, and the tones of conversation were low. They drove into the enclosure and hitched their horses, exchanged murmurs with the old Spanish servants who were there to assist them; and so drifted up the knoll and over the lawn beneath the oaks toward the house. To many it was only too poignantly reminiscent of the old days. They saw in retrospect the Colonel and Allie at the foot of the steps waiting to greet them and the huge punch bowls under the trees; and the gay murmur that floated from the barbecue grounds across the
