“And you? Do you live near here?”
“Yes, at Woodside Farm; that white house there, yonder in the fields.”
She pointed as she spoke to a long, low house standing some half a mile distant. As she did so John Temple looked again at her lovely face. Never in all his wanderings, he was telling himself, had he seen one half so fair. The coloring and features were alike perfect. Perhaps his gaze was too steadfast, for she dropped her eyes and suddenly turned away.
“I must be going now,” she said; “I came to get those roses to make another wreath—good-morning.” And she bowed and turned away.
Her manner was so simple and dignified that John Temple felt it would be a liberty to follow her, or try to detain her. Therefore he turned his footsteps once more in the direction of the Hall, and on his way thither he encountered Mr. Layton, the vicar of Woodlea, who had read the service over poor young Phillip’s grave.
The vicar had noticed John Temple among the mourners; he was a connection of the family, and he stopped.
“I think I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. John Temple?” he said.
“Yes,” answered John, touching his hat.
“I am the vicar here; my daughter married your uncle. Ah—this has been a sad affair.”
“Most sad—can you tell me the name of the young lady you must have just met?”