caught at the floating ends of her
white veil, and held them, as if he would thus anchor her to himself.

"Forgive me," he pleaded. "I'm afraid I'm too desperately unhappy to
know what I am saying."

"I know--I'm unhappy, too."

With the fatalism of youth they had accepted their tragedy as final. He
still held the end of her veil in his hand, but her face was turned away
from him.

A little breeze came from the west, and there was a dark line of cloud
below the gold.

"We shall have to go home on the train," Justin said, as he noted the
whitecaps beyond the bay. "There's too much wind to make it safe for us
to fly."

"Then we must go now. It is very late."

"I can telephone Sophie from the gatekeeper's house. It's on the other
side of the church. And I'll telephone to the men to come after the
hydro-plane."

She assented listlessly, and they walked on.

The church, when they reached it, showed itself an ancient edifice.
Built of English brick, it had withstood the storms of years. Its bell
still rang clearly the call to Sunday service, and at its font were
baptized the descendants of the men who slept in the old cemetery.

As they reached the steps, a man who was digging a grave hailed them.
"If you and your wife would like to look in," he said to Justin, "you
can bring the key to me at the gate. I'll be there when you come."

He unlocked the door for them. They heard his retreating footsteps, and
knew that they were alone. Then Justin spoke with quickened breath.
"That is as it should be--my wife----"

Out of a long silence she whispered, "Please--we must not--we must
not----"

"Surely we have a right to happiness----"

She had left his side, and her voice seemed to come faintly from among
the shadows: "Hasn't everybody a right to happiness?"

"Why should we think of everybody--it is my happiness and yours which
concerns us--sweetheart."

She did not answer, and, following her, he found that she had entered
one of the high-backed, old-fashioned pews, and was on her knees.

Hesitating, he presently knelt beside her.

It was very still in the old church--the old, old church, with its
history of sorrow and stress and storm. One final blaze of light
illumined the stained glass window above the altar, and touched the bent
heads with glory--the bright uncovered head and the veiled one beside
it.

Then again came dimness, darkness--silence.

They were in the vestibule of the church before he spoke