“Not much better, I fear: but no worse, I am thankful to say.” “Let us sit here awhile, and have a quiet chat,” she said. The calmness—almost indifference—of her manner quite took me by surprise. I little guessed what a fierce restraint she was putting upon herself. “One can be so quiet here,” she resumed. “I come here every—every day.” “It is very peaceful,” I said. “You got my letter?” “Yes, but I delayed writing. It is so hard to say—on _paper_—” “I know. It was kind of you. You were with us when we saw the last of——” She paused a moment, and went on more hurriedly. “I went down to the harbour several times, but no one knows which of those vast graves it is. However, they showed me the house he died in: that was some comfort. I stood in the very room where—where——.” She struggled in vain to go on. The flood-gates had given way at last, and the outburst of grief was the most terrible I had ever witnessed. Totally regardless of my presence, she flung herself down on the turf, burying her face in the grass, and with her hands clasped round the little marble cross, “Oh, my darling, my darling!” she sobbed. “And God meant your life to be so beautiful!” [Illustration: IN THE CHURCH-YARD] I was startled to hear, thus repeated by Lady Muriel, the very words of the darling child whom I had seen weeping so bitterly over the dead hare. Had some mysterious influence passed, from that sweet fairy-spirit, ere she went back to Fairyland, into the human spirit that loved her so dearly? The idea seemed too wild for belief. And yet, are there not ‘_more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy_’? “God _meant_ it to be beautiful,” I whispered, “and surely it _was_ beautiful? God’s purpose never fails!” I dared say no more, but rose and left her. At the entrance-gate to the Earl’s house I waited, leaning on the gate and watching the sun set, revolving many memories—some happy, some sorrowful—until Lady Muriel joined me. She was quite calm again now. “Do come in,” she said. “My father will be so pleased to see you!” The old man rose from his chair, with a smile, to welcome me; but his self-command was far less than his daughter’s, and the tears coursed down his face as he grasped both my hands in his, and pressed them warmly. My heart was too full to speak; and we all sat silent for a minute or two. Then Lady Muriel rang the bell for tea. “You _do_ take five o’clock tea, I know!” she said to me, with the sweet playfulness of manner I remembered so well, “even though you _ca’n’t_ work your wicked will on the Law of Gravity, and make the teacups descend into Infinite Space, a little faster than the tea!” This remark gave the tone to our conversation. By a tacit mutual consent, we avoided, during this our first meeting after her great sorrow, the painful topics that filled our thoughts, and talked like light-hearted children who had never known a care.