"It is late," he said, "and you are quite wet, I fear. Let me advise you to return home."
"Home!" said Mrs. Fitzpatrick mournfully. "To what do I return? I am less solitary here, than I am in my own house."
"You must be persuaded," said he, leading her from the tomb. "Mrs. Grant will, I am sure, be wretched until she sees you again."
"It is true," said she, "I ought not to indulge in such feelings. How silent! How ineffably still! I feel so deeply the fitness and the luxury of this calm that surrounds the dead, now that I also have a treasure buried here."
They walked homewards. Their foot-steps rustled in the long grass; and the latch of the wicket fell with a sharp sound, so deep was the quiet of the place.
At the gate of the cottage they met the postman; always late, and often very irregular in that village. He knew Mr. Haveloc by sight; and, glad to escape a walk to his residence, he touched his hat, and presented him with a letter. The handwriting was Margaret's. He had often seen it, and admired its beauty, although she had never before written to him.
Knowing the conditions upon which Mr. Grey had agreed that she should write to him, he hesitated to open it. He knew it must contain bad news of his friend's health.
"But read it, Mr. Haveloc," said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, who had stood glancing over one or two indifferent letters, while he was hesitating. "You would not stand on ceremony with me."
He tore it open with trembling hands, and read the following lines:—
"I am desired by Mr. Grey to summon you to Ashdale. He is very ill; and I tell you now, because it is easier to write than to speak it; that we must meet and part as strangers."