At this moment they were joined by another young man, whose entrance to the churchyard was not noticed. He had been walking with light elastic step along the middle of the road. A small bag was slung from his shoulder by a strap; he carried a violin-case. His broad felt hat, his brown tweed suit, his brown shoes, were all white with the dust of the road. He passed the church without observing it; then he remembered something, stopped, came back, and turned into the churchyard. He was quite a young man. His face was clean shaven--a mobile face, with thin lips and quick blue eyes. His hair, as he lifted his hat, was a light brown with a trace of yellow in it, growing in an arch over his forehead. His step was springy, his carriage free. His hair--longer than most men wear it,--the blue scarf at his throat, his long fingers, made one think of art in some shape or other. Probably a musician. In the churchyard he looked about him curiously. Then he turned to the group of three, and put exactly the same question as that proposed by the first young man. "May I ask," he said, "if this is Woodroffe Church?" The attendant nymph jumped up. "Oh!" she cried. "It's Dick!" "You here, Molly?" he asked. "I never expected----" "Hilarie," said the girl, "this is my old friend Dick. We were children together." Hilarie bowed graciously. "I am pleased to know your friend," she said. "I was just telling this other gentleman that this is Woodroffe Church. We are going into the church: would you like to come too?" Hilarie led the way, and opened the door of the south porch. Within, restorers had been at work. The seats which replaced the old oaken pews were machine-made, and new; they wanted the mellowing touch of two hundred years, and even then they would be machine-made still. The rood screen, as old as the Archbishop, was so polished and scraped, that it looked almost as much machine-made as the seats. Even the roof, after its scraping and painting, looked brand new. Yet they had not destroyed all the antiquity of the church: there were still the grey arches, the grey pillars, the grey walls and the monuments. There were many monuments in the church; two or three tablets in memory of former vicars; all the rest, shields, busts, and sculptured tombs, in memory of bygone Woodroffes. A low recessed arch in the north wall contained the figure of a Crusader. "He is one of the Woodroffes," said the guide. A recent tablet commemorated one who fell at the Alma. "He was another of them," said the guide. "You are walking over the graves of a whole family; they have been buried here from time immemorial. Every slab in the aisle, and every stone in the chancel, covers one of them."