It crept with a tender soothing into Paddy’s aching heart also as she silently threaded her way through the shrubs and gravestones to the spot where the flowers lay. The peacefulness of it all, the sense of a work well done and all Nature offering tribute—her sure and certain hope that it was indeed well with her father—kept her eyes serene and her face calm, although there was a drawn look about her mouth that went to the aunties’ hearts. When she reached the grave, she stopped and tenderly re-arranged the flowers, freeing some that had become twisted or crushed, and giving others more room to breathe. “Daddy would not like any of you to get hurt through him,” she whispered, “and you must just try and keep fresh as long as possible.” When she had finished she stood up, and a sudden terrible sense of loss enfolded her. “Oh, daddy, perhaps you’ll be lonely in Heaven,” she whispered brokenly. “It doesn’t seem possible you can be happy without mother and Eileen and me. We’re so terribly lonely without you here. I’m so afraid God won’t be able to comfort you without us up there. Only, perhaps, in some way, you are with us still. I expect you will be our guardian angel now, and you’ll understand all the things that are so strange and mysterious to us; and you’ll know about the glad meeting coming, and how beautiful it will all be some day. I know you won’t forget or change, daddy, and I’m glad we should have the pain instead of you; yet, how I’d love you just to come and tell me that it’s all beautiful, and you’re not lost and lonely among so many strange angels. “I know it’s all right, daddy, I mustn’t talk like this, and you’re not really far away at all. I can feel you quite close, only I can’t see you. Daddy! daddy! how shall I bear to live for years and years without seeing your dear face,” and she broke down into low, pitiful weeping. In the moonlight another form could be seen approaching, but Paddy was not aware of it until an arm was slipped through hers, and a big, sunburnt hand closed over her small one. She knew at once that it was Jack, but for some moments neither of them spoke. At last he cleared his throat and said huskily: “Your uncle has been asking for you, Paddy. I came to look for you.” “What does he want?” she asked wonderingly. Jack hesitated a little. At last he said: “I think it is something you have to be told. I’m a little afraid it’s bad news.” She started and turned a shade paler. Then she glanced down at the flowers. “It seems as this were surely enough,” she breathed half to herself. “I wish I could help you, Paddy,” he burst out. “I wish I could help you all. If you only knew how I hate and loathe myself for having wasted all these years.” “Poor Jack!” she said gently, and stroked the big brown hand. “You must go now,” he said. “Your uncle is waiting in the library. Will you come out again afterward?” “Yes. Wait for me by the boat-house,” and she turned away and crossed the churchyard.