However, it was a sunny corner, sheltered from the sea-wind, and the docks and nettles grew luxuriantly there.
Such dry-eyed, quiet grief amongst the emotional Welsh was new to the doctor, and he knew that if tears did not come to her relief her health would suffer, so he gently tried to make her talk of her little one.
"I saw you had tried a hot bath, or I would have recommended it," he said.
"Yes, Nance had." "I truly sympathise with you; he was a fine child." "Yes, he is a beautiful child," said Valmai.
"I am sorry to wound your feelings, but what day would you wish him to be buried ?" "Oh, any day; it makes no difference now." "To-day is Friday.

Shall we say Monday, then ?" "Yes, Monday will do.

At what time ?" said Valmai.
"At four o'clock." Nance was crying silently.
"Mrs.Hughes wants to know if you will come and stay with her till after Monday.

I have my gig at Abersethin, and can row you over now." Valmai smiled, and the sadness of that smile remained in Mr.Francis' memory.
"No," she said, shaking her head slowly, "I will not leave my baby until he is buried, but thank her for me, and thank you, oh, so much.
I did not know there was so much kindness left in the world." As she spoke the tears gathered in her eyes, and, throwing her arms over the feet of the little dead child, she rested her head upon them, and broke into long, deep sobs.
Mr.Francis, more content, went quietly out of the house, and did not see Valmai again until on Monday he met the funeral in the churchyard.
Valmai, to the horror of Nance and her friends, wore her usual white dress.

She had a bunch of white jessamine in her hand, and, as the little coffin disappeared from sight, she showered the flowers upon it.
Nance was too infirm to accompany her, so that she stood alone beside the grave, although surrounded by the fisher folk of the island.