If it had been good news I was bringing her, I should have quickened my steps when I saw her. Now I did not look up, but walked slower, wishing that something would come to prevent my having to destroy the last hope she had. I think she understood. She came two steps down towards me. The church-bells stopped ringing. 'Willie,' she said in a whisper. I shook my head. 'Was it true, then?' 'All true.' She drew back, covering her face with her hands, but she was very quiet. A blow in all its heaviness cannot fall twice. We stood together for some minutes. She was shivering so, that I told her to go home, but she shook her head, and passed slowly, without speaking, under the church porch. I went up into the gallery. It was the Sunday after Christmas, and the day had been so short that the light was already waning before the service began. This afternoon, too, a snow-storm was coming, and the heavy clouds made it duskier than usual. There were two faint lights glimmering over the reading-desk. When the last heavy footstep had sounded along the aisle, and there was silence through the church, it was almost out of darkness that the vicar's voice came, reading in a quiet even tone the opening words of the service: 'The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.' Broken hearts! It was good that God did not despise them, since there must be so many in the world. * * * * * My father was anxious to be told all that David Moore had said. He asked me many questions, and listened to every word I could remember with an interest that would have puzzled me, but that my thoughts were so full of Cuthbert, that it seemed natural every one should be as much taken up about him as we were. 'Then Moore didn't say whether he was killed directly, or how long he lived after he got his wound?' 'No, Moore was hurt himself; he did not hear until long after.' 'How long?' 'Two or three months, I think, he said, when he got back to his regiment.' 'Well.' 'They told him that poor Cuthbert was among the missing.' 'Only missing,' said my father, leaning forward; 'not killed.' I paused a moment. It had not struck me before. 'But then it's the same thing, for sure,' my father went on eagerly, 'quite the same thing. It's just the way they put it. I didn't mean to throw a doubt on his being killed, mind, Willie.' 'Moore did say missing.' 'Ay, missing or killed. 'Tis the same thing. Now don't you go and fash yourself for a word. The poor lad's killed, sure enough. There's no manner of doubt about that.' He bent over and touched my arm, to enforce his words. I could see he was vexed with himself for having asked the question, and wanted to make me forget it.