Herring had never been to her other than uncommunicative, partly out of natural modesty, partly because they were out of harmony over Mirelle. But Cicely had a woman’s curiosity, and would not be left in the dark as to what had taken place; and she felt real sympathy for John Herring, only she did not know how to exhibit it, because she did not know what course it should take. So she put to him questions, and with tact drew from him the entire story. ’Where does she lie, John?’ she asked in her soft tones, full of tender feeling for his sorrow. They were sitting together in the porch, looking out on the old walled garden, with its honesty, and white rocket, and love-lies-bleeding all ablow. ’Have you laid her in Launceston churchyard, or removed her to Welltown?’ He shook his head. ’No, Cicely. Neither under the shadow of Launceston church, nor exposed to the winds and roar of Boscastle. She lies in the sunny cemetery of the Sacré Coeur.’ Cicely said nothing. Indeed, neither spoke for some time. Presently, however, Cicely, who had laid her needlework in her lap, and had rested her folded hands on it, and was looking dreamily across the garden, said, ’Mirelle was your ideal, John.’ ’She _is_ my ideal, Cicely.’ Miss Battishill looked round at him. She was very pretty, with her copper-gold hair, and the reflection of the sunlight in the garden illumining her sweet face of the most delicate white and purest pink. ’I remember your speaking to me—almost when first I knew you, about Mirelle as your ideal, and I thought what you said was extravagant and unreal. But I was in fault. There was no exaggeration, and all was real to you.’ ’It was, and is so still.’ ’Now, tell me the truth, honestly, cousin, does the possession of such an ideal in the heart conduce to happiness?’ ’On the contrary, it saddens.’ ’Then why do you not shut your eyes to such alluring but unsatisfying fancies? Why are you not satisfied with what _is_, instead of sighing after what _may be_?’