She slowly faded away, poor thing; and about the time David was returning from a triumphant Christmas and New Year at Pontystrad--the Curate and his young wife had made a most delightful partie carree and David had kissed the very slightly protesting Bridget under the native mistletoe--Mrs.Storrington breathed her last, while her faithless yet long forgiven Francis knelt by her bedside in agonies of unavailing grief.
Well: she died and was buried, and her four children, ranging from nine to sixteen, sobbed very much and mourned for darling Mummie without the slightest suspicion ("'twas better so," she had always thought) that Dad had poisoned her wells of happiness ever since he took up with that minx at Cambridge in the very year in which long-legged Claribel was born.

A few months after the poor lady was consigned (under a really lovely cenotaph designed by her husband) to Ware Churchyard--no, it was to Ware cemetery; Dad introduced them all to a very sprightly and good-looking widow, Mrs.Claridge, who had also been bereaved years ago and left with two perfect ducks of children, four and five years old, to whom Claribel took instinctively (the elder ones sniffed a little, disliking "kids").
Then about Christmas time, 1906, Dad told them that Mrs.Claridge was going to make him happy by coming to tend his motherless children; was going to be his wife.

Francis, the eldest, stomped about the garden at Ware and swore he would go back to Rugby during the holidays; Elspeth, the gaunt girl of fourteen and Agnes, a dreamy and endearing child, cried themselves to sleep in each other's arms.

Claribel, however, quite approved.

And whether they liked it or not, in January, 1907, the marriage took place--at the Registrar's--and Beryl came to live for a short time at Ware, bringing ducksome Margery and adorable Podge.