Nor did we recur to the subject again that day.
Two days after, our little company followed the coffin out of the woodbine porch--where we had last said good-bye to poor Mr.
March--across the few yards of common, to the churchyard, scarcely larger than a cottage garden, where, at long intervals, the few Enderley dead were laid.
A small procession--the daughter first, supported by good Mrs.Tod, then John Halifax and I.

So we buried him--the stranger who, at this time, and henceforth, seemed even, as John had expressed it, "our dead," our own.
We followed the orphan home.

She had walked firmly, and stood by the grave-side motionless, her hood drawn over her face.

But when we came back to Rose Cottage door, and she gave a quick, startled glance up at the familiar window, we saw Mrs.Tod take her, unresisting, into her motherly arms--then we knew how it would be.
"Come away," said John, in a smothered voice--and we came away.
All that day we sat in our parlour--Mr.March's parlour that had been--where, through the no longer darkened casement, the unwonted sun poured in.

We tried to settle to our ordinary ways, and feel as if this were like all other days--our old sunshiny days at Enderley.