es the Parthenon, or some other
masterpiece of art, translate us to a new plane of existence, and
inspire, for the time being, the pessimist with hope and the sceptic
with religion.

The Cochin-Chinas pecked about with a contented mien among the long
grass, finding odds and ends of nourishment, and here and there eking
out their livelihood with a dart at a passing fly. Their long, comic,
tufted legs, which seemed to form a sort of monumental pedestal whereon
the bird itself was elevated, stalked and scratched about with an air of
industrious serenity.

There were few mornings in the year which left unstirred the grass which
grew long over the graves, but this was one of the few. Each blade stood
up still and straight, bearing its string of dewdrops. There were one or
two village sounds that came subdued through the sunshine. The winds
that usually haunted the high spot had fallen asleep, or were lying
somewhere in ambush among the woodlands beyond.

The look of strain had faded from the face of Mrs. Temperley, leaving
only an expression of sadness. The removal of all necessity for
concealing thought allowed her story to write itself on her face. The
speculative would have felt some curiosity as to the cause of a sadness
in one seemingly so well treated by destiny. Neither poverty nor the
cares of great wealth could have weighed upon her spirit; she had
beauty, and a quality more attractive than beauty, which must have
placed many things at her command; she had evident talent--her very
attitude proclaimed it--and the power over Fortune that talent ought to
give. Possibly, the observer might reflect, the gift was of that kind
which lays the possessor peculiarly open to her outrageous slings and
arrows. Had Mrs. Temperley shown any morbid signs of self-indulgent
emotionalism the problem would have been simple enough; but this was
not the case.

The solitude was presently broken by the approach of an old man laden
with pickaxe and shovel. He remarked upon the fineness of the day, and
took up his position at a short distance from the stile, where the turf
had been cleared away in a long-shaped patch. Here, with great
deliberation he began his task. The sound of his steady strokes fell on
the stillness. Presently, the clock from the grey tower gave forth its
announcement--eleven. One by one, the slow hammer sent the waves of air
rolling away, almost visibly, through the sunshine, their sound
alternating with the thud of