He stepped in, but when he was about to close the door he stood for a moment, gazing out through the low-browed arch. It framed a picture of old-fashioned headstones fallen all aslant, nettles flourishing upon forgotten graves, the trunks of the great yews, the weed-grown crest of the churchyard wall, defined with singular clearness upon a wide band of yellow sky. The gathered tempest hung above, and its deepening menace intensified the pale tranquillity of the horizon. "I say," said Harding as he turned away, "it's going to pour, you know!" "Well, we are under shelter," Barbara answered cheerfully, as she laid her key on the edge of one of the pews. "If it clears up again so that we get back in good time it won't matter a bit. And anyhow we've got umbrellas. The font is very old, they say." Harding obediently inspected the font. "And there are two curious inscriptions on tablets on the north wall. Mr. Pryor--he's the vicar--is always trying to read them. Do you know much about such things?" "Nothing at all." "Oh!" in a tone of disappointment. "I'm afraid you wouldn't get on with Mr. Pryor then." "I'm afraid not." "Perhaps you wouldn't care to look at them." "Oh, let us look, by all means." They walked together up the aisle. "_I_ don't care about them," said Barbara, "but I suppose Mr. Pryor would die happy if he could make them out." "Then I suspect he is happy meanwhile, though perhaps he doesn't know it," Reynold replied, looking upward at the half effaced lettering. "He can read some of it," said the girl, "but nobody can make out the interesting part." Harding laughed, under his breath. Their remarks had been softly uttered ever since the closing of the door had shut them in to the imprisoned silence. He moved noiselessly a few steps further, and looked round.