In the afternoon Monica and Randolph went out alone together; first into the whispering pine woods, and then out upon the breezy cliff, hard beneath their feet with the winter’s frost. He let her lead him whither she would. He had no thought to spare for aught beside herself. They were together once again. What more could they need? But Monica had an object in view; and as they walked, engrossed in each other, in sweet communion of soul and interchange of thought, or the almost sweeter silence of perfect peace and tranquillity, she led him once more towards the little cliff church; though only when she was unlatching the gate to enter the quiet grave-yard did he arouse to the sense of their surroundings. “Why, Monica,” he said, “why have you brought me here? We are too late for service.” “I know,” she answered; “but come. I want to show you something.” Her face wore an expression he did not understand. He followed her in silence to a secluded corner, where, beneath a dark yew tree, stood a green mound, at the head of which a wooden cross had been temporarily erected. Randolph read the letters it bore: “C. F.,” followed by a date, and beneath, the simple, familiar words— “_Requiescat in pace._” Strange, perhaps, that Monica should have cared for this lonely grave, in which was laid to rest one who had, as she believed, robbed her life of all its brightness and joy. Strange that she, in the absence of friend or kinsman, should have charged herself with keeping it, and of erecting there some monument to mark who lay there low. Strange—yet so it was. Her husband looked at her questioningly. “Conrad’s grave—yes,” she answered quietly. “Randolph, look at the date.” He did so, and started a little. “He died at dawn that day, Randolph. You know what was happening then at the other side of the world?” There was a strange look of awe upon her face as she spoke, which was reflected in his also. She came and stood close beside him. “Randolph, do you know that he was there—that night?—that he tried to kill you?” He had taken off his hat as he stood beside the grave, with the instinctive reverence for the dead—even though it be a dead foe—characteristic of a noble mind. Now he passed his hand across his brow and through his thick dark hair. “I thought that was a delusion of fever—a sort of hideous vision founded on no reality. Monica, was it so?” “It was.” “How do you know?” “I had it from his own lips.” He gazed at her without speaking; something in her face awed and silenced him.