"Give me the bag, Jack. You can turn here, can't you? Good-night."
They stood together near the churchyard yews, and the stars lighted their faces. They did not speak. For Theresa, the world had fallen away, and nothing remained but this patch of earth on which she and Alexander stood. That isolation passed, the trees came back and the hills, and while he was still looking at her, she touched him lightly on the sleeve.
"Tell me."
"It's your father. My father—I told him not to come."
"I know. I didn't know until last night. I read your letter. Please will you tell me everything? I want to know at once if he is dead."
"Yes, he's dead."
"It's all right. I am not going to fall."
"My father shot him. Then himself. I—he was mad. It is my fault; but I didn't know how mad—and I warned him. They're both dead, two of them. I saw my father fall. And yours spoke to me as I passed. He said: 'Send for Theresa.'"
"I think I'd like to hold your hand. Thank you. Are you sure he's dead?"
"Quite sure. And he died happy. He was smiling. It seemed—it seemed as if it were what he had been wanting. It may be that the dead are always glad."