oried stone-roofed
building, tenanted for twenty-five years past and more by Beatrice's
father, the Rev. Joseph Granger. The best approach to it from the
Bryngelly side was by the churchyard, through which the men with the
stretchers were now winding, followed by the crowd of sightseers.

"Might as well leave them here at once," said one of the bearers to the
other in Welsh. "I doubt they are both dead enough."

The person addressed assented, and the thick-set man wrapped in a dark
cloak, who was striding along by Beatrice's stretcher, groaned again.
Clearly, he understood the Welsh tongue. A few seconds more and they
were passing through the stunted firs up to the Vicarage door. In the
doorway stood a group of people. The light from a lamp in the hall
struck upon them, throwing them into strong relief. Foremost, holding
a lantern in his hand, was a man of about sixty, with snow-white hair
which fell in confusion over his rugged forehead. He was of middle
height and carried himself with something of a stoop. The eyes were
small and shifting, and the mouth hard. He wore short whiskers which,
together with the eyebrows, were still tinged with yellow. The face was
ruddy and healthy looking, indeed, had it not been for the dirty white
tie and shabby black coat, one would have taken him to be what he was in
heart, a farmer of the harder sort, somewhat weather-beaten and anxious
about the times--a man who would take advantage of every drop in the
rate of wages. In fact he was Beatrice's father, and a clergyman.

By his side, and leaning over him, was Elizabeth, her elder sister.
There was five years between them. She was a poor copy of Beatrice, or,
to be more accurate, Beatrice was a grand development of Elizabeth. They
both had brown hair, but Elizabeth's was straighter and faint-coloured,
not rich and ruddying into gold. Elizabeth's eyes were also grey, but
it was a cold washed-out grey like that of a February sky. And so with
feature after feature, and with the expression also. Beatrice's was
noble and open, if at times defiant. Looking at her you knew that she
might be a mistaken woman, or a headstrong woman, or both, but she
could never be a mean woman. Whichever of the ten commandments she might
choose to break, it would not be that which forbids us to bear false
witness against our neighbour. Anybody might read it in her eyes. But in
her sister's, he might discern her father's shifty hardness watered by
woman's weak