Out under the oaks again, Burton lighted a pipe and set off in an aimless manner down King’s Street. But at the first corner he turned to the right without hesitation. The third house held a solitary light. He stood for several moments across the way watching it, and then, humming a tune from sheer gladness, strolled on. At the next corner he again took the right-hand turning, and presently the tower of the old church arose, murky-white, against the starlit sky. The green, dotted with its crumbling tombstones, invited him in through the open gate. As he passed the church door he saw that the building was lighted, and simultaneously the sound of voices reached him. Wondering, he stepped noiselessly to a window and looked in. [Illustration] A little group of men and girls were congregated near the farthest door and a second group stood beside the chancel. There was much talking, and what was said he could not hear. But as he looked the group at the door ranged itself in couples, from the organ loft came the first notes of the wedding-march, and the procession started up the aisle. At the same moment Burton’s heart stood still. Back of the first three couples--apparently the ushers--a middle-aged gentleman and a girl came. For the man Burton had no eyes, but at the girl he gazed fixedly, hungrily. It was Kitty of the Roses! [Illustration] Up the nearer aisle marched the bridegroom and the best man. The organ’s notes rose and sank. Burton, with a vague disquiet at his heart, watched frowningly. “A rehearsal,” he told himself. The ushers turned at the end of the aisle and took up their stations. Bride and bridesmaids went slowly onward to the chancel; groom and best man advanced to meet them. Then the organ’s notes died away and with them went Burton’s happiness. [Illustration] Side by side before the empty altar stood the bridegroom and Kitty! Burton turned away from the window and stumbled blindly down the gravel driveway that led through the darkness to King’s Street. His hands clinched themselves fiercely and his heart was like lead. At the gate he paused and relighted his pipe with fingers that trembled. Then he laughed softly and walked homeward. “You’re too late, old man,” he muttered, “too late!” When he was ready for bed he blew out the lamp and drawing a chair to the open window sat and smoked many pipes and looked miserably down onto the darkened rose-garden. In the Castle all lights were gone. The town was silent save for a distant whistle from the direction of the railroad or the occasional _cheep_ of a circling bat. “Kitty!” he murmured once, “Kitty!” Then he closed his lips resolutely, grimly, over the stem of his pipe. God! how he hated the fragrance of roses! [Illustration] [Illustration] X The north-bound train left at eleven; his bag stood in the hallway; his watch said ten minutes of nine. Two dreary hours remained before he could shake the dust of Belle Harbour from his shoes for the last time.