“But was this corner really a churchyard?” asked the Italian. “I hope Mrs. Seldom won’t stroll down this way and see us!” “Mrs. Seldom is well suited to the place she lives in,” returned the other. “She lives upon the Past, just as her garden does--just as her potatoes do! These English vicarages are dreadful places. They have all the melancholy of age without its historic glamour. And how morbid they are! Any of your cheerful Latin curés would die in them, simply of damp and despair.” “But do tell me about this spot,” repeated Lacrima, with a little shiver. “Why did you say it was a peculiar churchyard?” “It was the place where they buried unbaptized children,” answered Andersen, and added, in a lower tone, “how cold it is getting! It must be the shadow we are in.” “But you haven’t yet,” murmured Lacrima, “you haven’t yet told me, what those weeds are.” “Well--we call them ‘mares’-tails’ about here,” answered the stone-carver, “I don’t know their proper name.” “But why don’t they dig them up? Look! They are growing all among the potatoes.” “They can’t dig them up,” returned the man. “They can’t get at their roots. They are the worst and most obstinate weed there is. They grow in all the Nevilton gardens. They are the typical Nevilton flora. They must have grown here in the days of the druids.” “But how absurd!” cried Lacrima. “I feel as if I could pull them up with my hands. The earth looks so soft.” “The earth is soft enough,” replied Andersen, “but the roots of these weeds adhere fast to the rock underneath. The rock, you know, the sandstone rock, lies only a short distance beneath our feet.” “The same stone as Nevilton house is built of?” “Certainly the same. Our stone, Mr. Romer’s stone, the stone upon which we all live here--except those who till the fields.” “I hate the thing!” cried Lacrima, in curious agitation. “You do? Well--to tell you the honest truth, so do I. I associate it with my father.” “I associate it with Gladys,” whispered Lacrima. “I can believe it. We both associate it with houses of tyranny, of wretched persecution. Perhaps I have never told you that my father was directly the cause of my mother’s death?” “You have hinted it,” murmured the girl. “I suspected it. But Luke loves the stone, doesn’t he? He always speaks as if the mere handling of it, in his work-shop, gave him exquisite pleasure.” “A great many things give Luke exquisite pleasure,” returned the other grimly. “Luke lives for exquisite pleasure.” A quick step on the grass behind them made them swing suddenly round. It was Vennie Seldom, who, unobserved, had been watching them from the vicarage terrace. A few paces behind her came Mr. Taxater, walking cautiously and deliberately, with the air of a Lord Chesterfield returning from an audience at St. James’. Mr. Taxater had already met the Italian on one or two occasions. He had sat next to her once, when dining at Nevilton House, and he was considerably interested in her.