olets, dropped as the flowers had been removed from the
coffin. Attached by a bit of white ribbon to their stalks was a tiny
square of notepaper, and on this was written in the careful but
unformed hand the doctor recognised, "From Cicely."

Holding them thoughtfully for a minute, the physician slowly opened his
fingers; and through all that dismal space, soon to be filled with
other coffins, Cicely's violets fell upon that which bore Peter's name.
Upon the coffin of Clomayne's fortunate junior clerk; in luck's way
still; promoted to the blessed company of those who die in what they
believe to be a good cause.

IN A TEA-SHOP

The duties of the tea-shop were not particularly hard, but to Lucilla,
whose head was filled with memories of a perfect holiday just over, a
little irksome. The church clock, in the market-place upon which the
windows looked, chimed the half-hour past five. The tea-room closed at
six-thirty.

"At last it ringeth to evensong," Lucilla said.

At least, these were the words which repeated themselves in her brain;
what she really said was--"Hot toast for two--sixpence; a pot of
tea--sixpence; how many pieces of cake, sir? Thank you;
cake--fourpence. One shilling and fourpence, if you please."

It had been a busy afternoon, but the couple who paid the
one-and-fourpence, pushing some coppers towards the waitress, who, with
a dignified motion and an aloof-voiced "We do not receive gratuities,"
pushed them back, would in all probability be the last customers.
Lucilla having discovered the man's hat for him, restored to the woman
the wrist-bag and pocket-handkerchief and parcel she would have left
behind her, and watched the pair from the room, yawned aloud as she
piled the soiled teacups, plates, and saucers on the little brown
Japanese tray, and carried them to that screened-off angle of the room
where china was washed and bread and butter cut all the day long.

She returned, yawning still, to dust the crumbs from the little bamboo
table. Half-past five! What, in those delightful fourteen days which
had composed her yearly holiday, had she been doing at that hour? So
precious the memory of that fortnight, so treasured every incident,
almost she could have accounted for each minute of the time.

As she set the chairs straight before the dozen bamboo tables, put each
illustrated paper in its allotted place, her inward gaze was turned
upon scenes she had left behind with the delightful luxur