"I wonder whether you have forgotten our drive from Ramelton to our house when I came to fetch you from the quay? We were alone in the dog-cart, and we spoke—"
"Of the friends whom one knows for friends the first moment, and whom one seems to recognise even though one has never seen them before," interrupted Feversham. "Indeed I remember."
"And whom one never loses whether absent or dead," continued Ethne. "I said that one could always be sure of such friends, and you answered—"
"I answered that one could make mistakes," again Feversham interrupted.
"Yes, and I disagreed. I said that one might seem to make mistakes, and perhaps think so for a long while, but that in the end one would be proved not to have made them. I have often thought of those words. I remembered them very clearly when Captain Willoughby brought to me the first feather, and with a great deal of remorse. I remember them again very clearly to-day, although I have no room in my thoughts for remorse. I was right, you see, and I should have clung firmly to my faith. But I did not." Her voice shook a little, and pleaded as she went on: "I was young. I knew very little. I was unaware how little. I judged hastily; but to-day I understand."
She opened her hand and gazed for a while at the white feathers. Then she turned and went inside the church. Feversham followed her.
CHAPTER XXXII
IN THE CHURCH AT GLENALLA
Ethne sat down in the corner of a pew next to the aisle, and Feversham took his stand beside her. It was very quiet and peaceful within that tiny church. The afternoon sun shone through the upper windows and made a golden haze about the roof. The natural murmurs of the summer floated pleasantly through the open door.