No one out of the family, except the sexton, who lived close by, owned a key to the building; and therefore Walter was surprised to find the door unlocked and ajar. He looked in. The light through the stained-glass window fell full upon a female figure, dressed in black, kneeling beside the sarcophagus, and engaged in hanging about it wreaths of ferns and autumnal leaves. Walter entered softly. The kneeling figure was so occupied with her pious task that she did not observe him until he stood close beside her. Then she looked up. "Adela!" Walter exclaimed, in surprise. "You here? I never expected to find you here." "And why not?" she asked, a gleam of defiance in her eyes, which nevertheless showed traces of recent tears. "Did I not love your father dearly?" she continued, with a perceptible tremor in her voice, "and do I not know how dearly he loved the woods?--and--and--there were only flowers from the garden and greenhouse laid upon his coffin." Walter was silent for a moment, looking down at the forest wreaths that Adela had brought. Then he took her hand in his. "You are right," he said, gently. "Your heart is true and kind, after all." Instead of replying, the girl turned from him, and, hurrying out of the chapel, sank down upon the steps, covered her face with her hands, and burst into a passion of sobs. Walter followed her, startled, and yet touched, by this outbreak of grief. "I thank you for these tears, Adela," he said, Beating himself on the step beside her. "You loved him, and can understand what we have all lost." "Oh, I know there is no one left like him, so good and kind!" the girl sobbed. "And he loved me, too, and was always tender to me. I can never forget it, for no one else cares for me!" "Adela!" Walter exclaimed, interrupting her. She dried her eyes, and looked up at him. "Yes," she went on, "no one gives me credit for anything good; no one really cares for me; but he--he said, only a few days ago,--the last time he came to us,--'Little Adelaide,'--oh, no one will ever call me that again!--'Little Adelaide, some day you will----' But why should I repeat it, and to you, who are surprised that I have a warm, kind heart? Oh, I am so unhappy!" In spite of her naïve egotism in the expression of her grief, Walter felt that she was really deeply moved, and the unaccustomed spectacle of one who was always laughing, always gay, giving way to such a heart-breaking burst of tears, touched him profoundly. "Adela, dear Adela, I pray you be calm," he entreated. "How can you say that no one cares for you,--you who have a father, and so many others who love you?"