“Sometimes, I suppose,” responded her visitor wearily. “And now, Mrs. Holt, I must go; I know that you think badly of me, and I deserve it.” “Well, ma’am, I can’t say but I _do_!” Her tone was of an intensity that conveyed a far greater degree of disapproval than mere words could convey. “But my opinion ain’t of no value to the likes of _you_.” “You were very good to him. You took my place; I will not thank you. You do not want my thanks. You did all for his own sake and for pure love. Oh, Mrs. Holt, if I could only live the last two years over again!” “There’s nothing like beginning a new leaf, ma’am. You have Mr. Wynne still.” “Mr. Wynne will never forgive me--never. He said so. He said----” Then her voice failed. “Good-bye, Mrs. Holt.” “Ay, I’m coming to the gate with you. I’ll tell Tom Holler where to take ye; it’s in or about three miles. You’d like a few white flowers? The lilies are just a wonder for beauty.” “No, no, no. I won’t trouble you. I won’t take them,” she protested tremulously. “Oh, but indeed you must!” Mrs. Holt was determined that, as far as lay in _her_ power, Mrs. Wynne should respect _les convenances_, and, seizing a knife as they passed through the kitchen, cut quite a sheaf of white lilies, whilst Madeline stood apathetically beside her, as if she was a girl in a dream. Monks Norton was an old, a very old grey country church, thickly surrounded by gravestones--a picturesque place on the side of a hill, far away from any habitation, save the clerk’s cottage and a pretty old rectory house smothered in ivy. As Madeline pushed open the heavy lych gate, she was aware that she was not the only visitor to the churchyard. On a walk some little way off stood two smartly dressed girls, whom she knew--London acquaintances--and an elderly gentleman, with a High Church waistcoat, apparently the rector. They had their backs turned towards her, and were talking in a very animated manner. They paused for a second as they noticed a tall lady turn slowly down a pathway, as if she was looking for something--for a grave, of course. Then resumed their discussion, just where they had left it off. “It’s _too_ sweet!” said one of the girls rapturously, “quite a beautiful idea, and you say put up recently?” “Yes,” assented the rector, who took a personal pride in all the nice new tombstones, “only last Saturday week. It’s quite a work of art, is it not?” “Yes,” returned the second lady. “You say that it was a child, brought by the father, and that he was very much cut up. His name was Wynne--one of _the_ Wynnes. It can’t be our Mr. Wynne, Laura; he is not married.” “Oh, there are dozens of Wynnes,” replied her sister. “And you said it was a sad little funeral, did you not, Uncle Fred? Only the father and a friend and two country-people. The mother----”