He looked at her questioningly, almost fiercely. Her words, however, seemed spoken without intent.
“So far as mine is concerned,” he pronounced, “it is finished. There is a memorial stone laid upon it, and no resurrection is possible.”
“You cannot tell,” she answered. “No one can tell.”
He turned back to his work almost rudely, but she stayed by his side.
“Once,” she remarked, reflectively, “I, too, went a little way into the world. I was a school-teacher at Norwich. I was very fond of some one there; we were engaged. Then my mother died and I had to come back to look after father.”
He nodded.
“Well?”
“We are a long way from Norwich,” she continued, quietly. “Soon after I left, the man whom I was fond of grew lonely. He found some one else.”
“You have forgotten him?” Tavernake asked, quickly.
“I shall never forget him,” she replied. “That part of life is finished, but if ever my father can spare me, I shall go back to my work again. Sometimes those work the best and accomplish the most who carry the scars of a great wound.”