ay, without a sign on his face of that
agony which was rending his heart. There was a carriage there to take
him to the railway, but he only shook his head when he was invited to
enter it. He walked off and wandered about for hours, till he thought
that the graveyard would be deserted. Then he returned, and when he
found himself alone he stood over the newly heaped-up soil. "Marion,"
he said to himself over and over again, whispering as he stood there.
"Marion,--Marion; my wife; my woman." As he stood by the grave
side, one came softly stealing up to him, and laid a hand upon his
shoulder. He turned round quickly, and saw that it was the bereaved
father. "Mr. Fay," he said, "we have both lost the only thing that
either of us valued."

"What is it to thee, who are young, and hardly knew her twelve months
since?"

"Months make no difference, I think."

"But old age, my lord, and childishness, and solitude--"

"I, too, am alone."

"She was my daughter, my own. Thou hadst seen a pretty face, and that
was all. She had remained with me when those others died. Had thou
not come--"

"Did my coming kill her, Mr. Fay'?"

"I do not say that. Thou hast been good to her, and I would not say a
hard word to thee."

"I did think that nothing could have added to my sorrow."

"No, my lord; no, no. She would have died. She was her dear mother's
child, and she was doomed. Go away, and be thankful that thou, too,
hast not become the father of children born only to perish in your
sight. I will not say an unkind word, but I would wish to have my
girl's grave to myself." Upon this Lord Hampstead walked off, and
went back to his own home, hardly knowing how he reached it.

It was a month after this that he returned to the churchyard, and
might have been seen sitting on the small stone slab which the Quaker
had already caused to be laid over the grave. It was a fine October
evening, and the sombre gloom of the hours was already darkening
everything around. He had crept into the enclosure silently, almost
slily, so as to insure himself that his presence should not be noted;
and now, made confident by the coming darkness, he had seated himself
on the stone. During the long hours that he sat there no word was
formed within his lips, but he surrendered himself entirely to
thoughts of what his life might have been had she been spared to him.
He had come there for a purpose, the very opposite of that; but how
often does it come to pass t