ve been so kind. But don't you wait, Laura, unless you like.
I dare say you have other things to do."

"Oh no, I am not busy this morning: besides, it is too late to do
anything now before lunch." And she also sat down again.

The Grahams came up and immediately began to explain in subdued tones
about Mr. Graham's sore throat, which was so bad on the day of the
funeral that his wife absolutely threatened to lock the front door if
he attempted to attend. It was equally unfortunate that one of Mrs.
Graham's prostrating sick headaches obliged her husband to forbid her
paying that last token of respect and affection to dear Miss Ethel.

Mrs. Bradford murmured a vague reply, wiping her eyes, and saying that
the cross of early chrysanthemums was very beautiful--it was nice of
them to remember that poor Ethel liked chrysanthemums. Then after a
pause she mentioned the delicious fruit and potted meats which the
Grahams had sent her almost daily, for indeed they were very kind when
it did not hurt them.

Laura said little, but the occasion was not one for discussing her
affairs, so that denoted nothing; and very soon the Grahams went off,
without satisfying Mrs. Bradford's curiosity in any way.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Bradford's legs retained the same inability to do anything their
owner did not wish as had distinguished them during Miss Ethel's
lifetime, so towards sunset she sent Caroline to do various errands in
the village.

As the girl went along, she had on her right the old grey tower of the
church standing with a sort of noble repose against the red and orange
sunset. It made her think of Miss Ethel, laid to rest in the old
churchyard in the middle of the village--among friends and neighbours
of her youth. The churchyard was now only used by those who had the
old family graves there, so that Caroline had never been at a funeral
exactly like Miss Ethel's before, and those in the new cemetery had not
made the same impression on her mind.

But her attention was diverted now by the sight of the carrier with his
trolley, who had brought her box to the Cottage that day in the spring.
And as she began to run after him, her flying figure was caught here
and there by the glow of the sunset, giving her a slight momentary
resemblance to the nymph on fire that Wilson's fancy had once seen in
her.

Wilson, himself, may even have been reminded of this as he stood
looking after her; but he turn