rose,
spindling, to balance an older one on the other corner of the plot. His
sister's recently shaped grave lay just beyond. As yet, Bertie had
provided no headstone for the late Lady Tressilvain.

Hamil stood inspecting Malcourt's name, finding it impossible to realise
that he was dead--or for that matter, unable to comprehend death at all.
The newly chiselled letters seemed vaguely instinct with something of
Malcourt's own clean-cut irony; they appeared to challenge him with
their mocking legend of death, daring him, with sly malice, to credit
the inscription.

To look at them became almost an effort, so white and clear they stared
back at him--as though the pallid face of the dead himself, set for ever
in raillery, was on the watch to detect false sentiment and delight in
it. And Hamil's eyes fell uneasily upon the flowers, then lifted. And he
said aloud, unconsciously:

"You are right; it's too late, Malcourt."

There was a shabby, neglected grave in the adjoining plot; he bent over,
gathered up his flowers, and laid them on the slab of somebody aged
ninety-three whose name was blotted out by wet dead leaves. Then he
slowly returned to face Malcourt, and stood musing, gloved hands deep in
his overcoat pockets.

"If I could have understood you--" he began, under his breath, then fell
silent. A few moments later he uncovered.

It was snowing heavily when he turned to leave; and he stood back and
aside, hat in hand, to permit a young woman to pass the iron gateway--a
slim figure in black, heavy veil drawn, arms piled high with lilies. He
knew her at once and she knew him.

"I think you are Mr. Hamil," she said timidly.

"You are Miss Wilming?" he said in his naturally pleasant voice, which
brought old memories crowding upon her and a pale flush to her cheeks.

There was a moment's silence; she dropped some flowers and he recovered
them for her. Then she knelt down in the sleet, unconscious of it, and
laid the flowers on the mound, arranging them with great care, while the
thickening snow pelted her and began to veil the white blossoms on the
grave.

Hamil hesitated after the girl had risen, and, presently, as she did not
stir, he quietly asked if he might be of any use to her.

At first she made no reply, and her gaze remained remote; then, turning:

"Was he your friend?" she asked wistfully.

"I think he meant to be."

"You quarrelled--down there--in the South"--she made a vague gesture
toward the