He returned to attend the funeral. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. I was sure you could not have the heart to slay a child—an innocent child. "I am not to be deceived. His gaze dropped to the black garment that covered her. Let me see my child, if he is really here?" "Behold him!" returned Trenchard, taking Thames (who had been a mute, but deeply-interested, witness of the scene) by the hand, and leading him towards her. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling.
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