Stellamaris stood tense until the end. A great peace had fallen upon her. “Blessed are those that die in the Lord.” The simple words held a mystic significance. They reiterated themselves in her brain. Young, emotional, inexperienced, overwhelmed by the shattering collapse of the exquisite, cloud-capped towers of her faith, she found in them an unquestioned truth. By that grave-side, in the sacred presence of the dead, not only of “the dear sister here departed,” but of the inhabitants of all the gleaming stone and marble tenements around, there could be no lying; such was the unargued conviction of her candid soul. A voice, coming not from the commonplace, white-robed man, but from the blue vault of heaven, proclaimed that Unity had died in the Lord and that she was blessed. The message was one of unutterable consolation. Unity had died in the Lord. The comforting acceptance of the message indicated the restoration of Stella's faith in God. The mind of the child-woman is a warp of innocence shot with the woof of knowledge, and the resultant fabric is a thing no man born can seize and put upon canvas, and, for the matter of that, no woman, when she has ceased to be a child. John stood for a while looking down into the grave, and gently dropped a wreath which he held in his hand. Then he turned gloomily away, and the others followed him, and the grave-diggers' spadefuls of earth rattled down on the coffin with a sound of dreadful finality. STELLA's heart had softened toward John. Herold had told her how he had nearly come by his death on the rocks below the Channel House. It had moved her to the depths. And now she saw that he was bowed down with grief for Unity. All resentment against him had died. She recovered her faith, not perhaps in the wonder of the Great High Belovedest of the past, but in the integrity of the suffering man. When they reached and had re-entered the house, she took an opportunity of being alone with him. The two elder ladies were up-stairs, and Walter and Sir Oliver had gone out to smoke in the little front garden. Then she said with shy gentleness: “This must be very desolate for you, dear. Won't Miss Lindon and you come down with us to Southcliff? I have fallen in love with her. I wonder whether I dare ask her. The sea air would do her good.” “She would be delighted, I'm sure; but would you like me to come, too?” he said, bending his heavy brows. “Of course,” replied Stella. She flushed slightly and lowered her eyes. “I'm afraid I'm not a very gay companion, Stella. In fact, I don't think I ever was one--except in the days when I used to tell you fairy-tales about the palace--” “Oh, don't!” She could not restrain the quick little cry and gesture. “We must n't talk about that any more. We 've got the future to think of. Reconstruction--is n't that what they call it? We have got to look at things as they are, and laugh sometimes.” “I feel,” said he, “as though I could never laugh again.”