The wind from the sea was blowing fresh and free over the village, and beyond it to the little churchyard, the God's acre of Northbourne. Kneeling beside one of the grassy mounds therein was Theo Carnegy, tears rolling down her earnest face. The girl was overwrought by home-worries, for Theo was none of the crying sort, as a rule. But there are times in the lives of each of us when all things seem too difficult for our feeble hands to smooth out; the knots, the difficulties, become hopelessly entangled; we sit down dismayed in stony despair, or we weep helplessly, according to our several temperaments. From the beginning of the sorrow that shaded her young days, Theo had a trick, in times when harassing troubles crowded upon her, of secretly slipping away to the churchyard, and whispering her trials to that grassy mound, the most sacred spot of earth to the girl. It was so still, so unutterably peaceful, in the hallowed enclosure, where the green grass grew tangled among the grey headstones that elbowed each other in the cramped space. During the week the little churchyard was deserted. On Sundays the simple fisher-folk wandered in and out among the Northbourne sleepers, talking softly of their old neighbours; but it never occurred to them to do anything towards keeping the graves neat and straight. Theo's loving care kept the quiet corner where her mother slept in perfect order; but for the rest an air of dreary neglect prevailed. Bewildered and harassed by her brothers' mad outbreak, Theo had sought her usual consolation, and was sitting leaning her cheek against the stone that told the last chapter in the life-history of the gentle mother who had risen at the Master's call to go up higher. And as she so sat, a peace, born of the surrounding silence, brooded down over her troubled soul. Her anger at the boys' mutiny died out. Somehow, among the silent sleepers round about her, it seemed small and paltry to fume over the wranglings of the schoolroom. The wind that stole up from the bay dried the tears on Theo's cheek. New resolves stirred her heart. She would pluck up courage and try, once again, to move Alick's stubborn will. Not that she had much hope of inducing him to apologise to his justly offended tutor. She knew that Philip Price had created an insurmountable rock in the path of reconciliation by his insistence on such a thing. 'I don't blame him, of course not,' she said half aloud. 'It's due to him that the boys should apologise. Dear old Geoff is already willing to do it; but Alick never will!' 'Who is you talking to, Theo?' A sweet, shrill voice made Theo jump, and turn quickly. 'Queenie! Oh, my deary, how did you know where to find me?' she cried in her surprise.