"I hit him first on the head with an over-ripe pear, which I threw through the window. A wonderful shot—not once in a hundred times would I do it again. And as he jumped up from the table where he was sitting, I spoke to him from my heart." "Yes," grinned the Soldier. "And what did you say?" "I said, ’You dirty louse—you maimer of little dogs—come out and fight, unless you’re a coward as well as a swine.’ Then," murmured the Actor, "I ran as fast as I could, for fear he might mistake his opponent and start on me." For a space there was silence, while the Army and the Church shook hopelessly, and the Stage impressively lit a cigar. And it was as he deposited the match in an ash-tray on the table that he saw the piece of paper lying in front of him. He read what was written on it, and then he turned slowly and looked at the other two. "So that’s what he was doing under the yew tree," he said, softly. "Dear lad! Why, yes, he’s a dear lad." "Of course he is," returned the Soldier, gruffly. "What the devil did you think?" It was under the yew tree that the boy and the girl met. She was kneeling there, her frock gleaming white in the moonlight as Hugh came through the trees, and for a time he watched her without speaking. Two and a half years—more—since he had seen her, and now it seemed to him that she was more lovely than ever. His eyes took in every detail of her, as she bent forward and laid both her hands on the little grave, and, suddenly, with a great wave of wonder, he realized that all the bitterness had gone from his soul. The past was blotted out—sponged from the slate; he was alive again, and the present—why, the present held out beckoning hands of welcome. "Beryl," he whispered very low, but not so low that she failed to hear him. "Why, Hugh, dear," she answered. "I was afraid you’d go away without seeing me." "I should, if—Tommy had been alive." He knelt beside her, and together they rearranged two or three of the stones. "I put a bit of paper here," he said, after a moment. "I found it," she answered. "That’s how I knew you were here—first. Oh! Hugh"—almost unconsciously she found herself in his arms—"poor little chap! And I’d been telling him all last week he’d be seeing you soon." "You darling!" The boy’s voice was husky. "He knows—Tommy knows." And so for a while they clung together, while the scent of the summer flowers drifting idly by mingled with the scent of her hair. "If he’d been here, Beryl, I was going to take him," he said, at last. "I was bitter—dear heavens! but I was bitter. I felt I didn’t even want to see you. We were going hunting together—just he and I—out in the wilds." "And now, boy," whispered the girl, "are you bitter any more?" "No," he answered, wonderingly. "I’m not. Because, Beryl, because I’ve thrashed that swine who killed him. Something seemed to snap in me as he went down and out, and I was conscious of a sort of marvellous happiness."