r, though he held her hand close.

"To be rid of our individuality, which is our will, which is our
effort--to live effortless, a kind of curious sleep--that is very
beautiful, I think; that is our after-life--our immortality."

"Yes?"

"Yes--and very beautiful to have."

"You don't usually say that."

"No."

In a while they went indoors. Everybody looked at them curiously. He
still kept the quiet, heavy look in his eyes, the stillness in his
voice. Instinctively, they all left him alone.

About this time Miriam's grandmother, who lived in a tiny cottage in
Woodlinton, fell ill, and the girl was sent to keep house. It was a
beautiful little place. The cottage had a big garden in front, with
red brick walls, against which the plum trees were nailed. At the back
another garden was separated from the fields by a tall old hedge. It
was very pretty. Miriam had not much to do, so she found time for her
beloved reading, and for writing little introspective pieces which
interested her.

At the holiday-time her grandmother, being better, was driven to Derby
to stay with her daughter for a day or two. She was a crotchety old
lady, and might return the second day or the third; so Miriam stayed
alone in the cottage, which also pleased her.

Paul used often to cycle over, and they had as a rule peaceful and happy
times. He did not embarrass her much; but then on the Monday of the
holiday he was to spend a whole day with her.

It was perfect weather. He left his mother, telling her where he was
going. She would be alone all the day. It cast a shadow over him; but
he had three days that were all his own, when he was going to do as he
liked. It was sweet to rush through the morning lanes on his bicycle.

He got to the cottage at about eleven o'clock. Miriam was busy preparing
dinner. She looked so perfectly in keeping with the little kitchen,
ruddy and busy. He kissed her and sat down to watch. The room was small
and cosy. The sofa was covered all over with a sort of linen in squares
of red and pale blue, old, much washed, but pretty. There was a stuffed
owl in a case over a corner cupboard. The sunlight came through the
leaves of the scented geraniums in the window. She was cooking a chicken
in his honour. It was their cottage for the day, and they were man and
wife. He beat the eggs for her and peeled the potatoes. He thought she
gave a feeling of home almost like his mother; and no one could look
more beautiful, with h