But the service was over and the mourners turned away, and John went with them. He glanced back and saw that the girl in the white frock was still standing by the grave. Others, too, had now approached it; gone to take a last look at the young heir. The funeral guests did not return to the Hall, except John Temple, who drove there with his uncle. The squire was deeply affected, and John not unmoved. "He--he was everything to me," faltered the squire. "I feel the deepest sympathy for you," answered John Temple, and his words were actually true. It was a short but dreary drive, and when they reached the Hall the squire asked John Temple to excuse him until dinner time. "I feel I am unfit company for anyone," he said, "but make yourself quite at home in the house that will be yours some day," he added, with melancholy truth. Thus John was at liberty to pass the time as best he could. He went to the Hall door, and looked out on the green park. It was a tempting vista. His uncle's words not unnaturally recurred to his mind. So this was his inheritance; this wide wooded domain, this stately mansion house. The son of a younger son, he had been brought up in a very modest home, and he remembered it at this moment. It was certainly a great change, and John Temple thought of it more than once as he walked straight across the park, and finally reached a long country lane scented with meadow-sweet, and its hedges starred with the wild rose. Temple lit a cigarette, and sat down on a rustic stile. The whole scene was so rural it half-amused John. The hayfield near; the cows standing in another field beneath some trees for shelter from the sun; the distant gurgle of a brook. "It only wants the pretty milkmaid," thought John, with a smile. This idea had scarcely crossed his mind when he saw advancing down the lane the same girl in the white frock that he had seen by his young cousin's grave. She was gathering the roses from the hedge rows, and placing them in a small basket whenever she saw one that struck her fancy. She was intent on her task, and never saw Temple seated on his stile until she was quite close to him. Thus, he had an opportunity of watching her, as she stretched out her hands to pluck the flowers. It was a charming face, fresh, young, and beautiful, and Temple was half sorry when, with a little start and a blush, she perceived how near she was to him. He rose and raised his hat, and the girl looked at him half-shyly, and then addressed him. "You are the gentleman, are you not," she said, "who so kindly placed my wreath in dear Phil Temple's grave?" "Yes," answered John Temple, "it was very kind of you to bring one." "Oh, no," said the girl, quickly, "we knew him so well, you know. He was the dearest boy, and--and his death was so dreadfully sad." "Most sad, indeed; I am truly sorry for his poor father." "Oh! it is terrible; terrible for every boy that was playing in the field." "How did it happen?" asked Temple.