rd.

Cries and lamentations fell on Mavis' ears: to the music of a military
march, the brave young knight was borne to burial. Soon, the moonlight
fell upon the church's first monument, beside which the tearless and
kneeling figure of a woman often prayed. It was not so very long before
the widow was carried to rest beside her husband; it seemed but little
longer when the offspring of her love stood before the altar with the
bride of his choice.

The foregoing scenes were many times repeated, as, thus, life moved
down the centuries, differing not at all but for changes in personality
and dress. The church looked on, unmoved, unaltered, save for signs of
age and an increasing number of memorials raised to the dead. The
procession of life began by fascinating and ended by paining Mavis.

It was as if she were the spectator of a crowd in which her heart ached
to mix, despite the distressing penalties of pain to which those she
envied were, at all times, subject. It was as if she were forever cut
off from the pleasures of her kind, to gain which the risk of mental
and physical torments was well worth the running. It seemed as if her
youth, sweetness, and immense capacity for loving, were doomed to
wither unsought, unappreciated in the desert of her destiny. As if to
save herself from such an unkind fate, she involuntarily fell on her
knees; but she did not pray, indeed, she made no attempt to formulate
prayer in her heart. Perhaps she thought that her dumb, bruised
loneliness was more eloquent than words. She remained on her knees for
quite a long time. When she got up, the music stopped. The contrast
between the sound and the succeeding silence was such that the latter
seemed to be more emphatic than the melody.

When she, presently, rose to go, she saw a man standing just behind her
in the aisle; he was elderly and homely-looking, with soft, far-away
eyes.

"Good morning, miss," said the man.

"Good morning," replied Mavis, wondering who he could be.

"I hoped--you zeemed to like my playing."

"Was it you who played so beautifully?"

"I was up there practising just now."

"Do you often practise like that?"

"It isn't often I get the chance; I'm mostly busy varming."

"Farming?"

"That's it. And what with bad times, one doesn't get much time for the
organ. And when one does, one's vingers run away with one."

"You a farmer?"

"At Pennington Varm. My name's Trivett, miss. If ever you would come in
to tea