silly.

She wondered what sorrow would do for him. She had come down from
Scotland the night before, and down here to Herefordshire this
morning; she had not then yet seen him; and he was now at the
funeral....

Well, sorrow would be his test. How would he take it?

Mrs. Baxter broke in on her meditations.

"Maggy, darling ... do you think you can do anything? You know I once
hoped...."

The girl looked up suddenly, with so vivid an air that it was an
interruption. The old lady broke off.

"Well, well," she said. "But is it quite impossible that--"

"Please, don't. I--I can't talk about that. It's impossible--utterly
impossible."

The old lady sighed; then she said suddenly, looking at the clock
above the oak mantelshelf, "It is half-past. I expect--"

She broke off as the front door was heard to open and close beyond the
hall, and waited, paling a little, as steps sounded on the flags; but
the steps went up the stairs outside, and there was silence again.

"He has come back," she said. "Oh! my dear."

"How shall you treat him?" asked the girl curiously.

The old lady bent again over her embroidery.

"I think I shall just say nothing. I hope he will ride this afternoon.
Will you go with him?"

"I think not. He won't want anyone. I know Laurie."

The other looked up at her sideways in a questioning way, and Maggie
went on with a kind of slow decisiveness.

"He will be queer at lunch. Then he will probably ride alone and be
late for tea. Then tomorrow--"

"Oh! my dear, Mrs. Stapleton is coming to lunch tomorrow. Do you think
he'll mind?"

"Who is Mrs. Stapleton?"

The old lady hesitated.

"She's--she's the wife of Colonel Stapleton. She goes in for what I
think is called New Thought; at least, so somebody told me last month.
I'm afraid she's not a very steady person. She was a vegetarian last
year; now I believe she's given that up again."

Maggie smiled slowly, showing a row of very white, strong teeth.

"I know, auntie," she said. "No; I shouldn't think Laurie'll mind
much. Perhaps he'll go back to town in the morning, too."

"No, my dear, he's staying till Thursday."

* * * * *

There fell again one of those pleasant silences that are possible in
the country. Outside the garden, with the meadows beyond the village
road, lay in that sweet September hush of sunlight and mellow color
that seemed to embalm the house in peace. From the farm beyond the
stable-