"Miss Marjory was saying it should be gay-like," murmured a rebellious voice among the elder scholars; the younger pausing with awed glances at the only authority they had known.
"Then she was wrong," retorted the Reverend James Gillespie's owner. "It should be stately and solemn as befits a--a hymn. Don't you agree with me, James?"
"Perfectly, perfectly. The Bishop agrees also." His face beamed unalloyed content; for he had read "dust to dust, ashes to ashes," over many a coffin since his voice broke down one November morning some years ago, and the memory of one funeral scarcely troubles him more than another; each and all have a place in that growing sense of his sacerdotal position, which makes him greatly regret that in those earlier days he did not wear a biretta when exercising his priestly function in committing his flock to their graves.
And the evening shadows were lengthening also along the white road that curves and crests the points and bays of the loch. A glint of light where Paul had stood like St. Christopher, a deeper shadow where Marjory had sate listening to the blabbing of the waves. Light and shadow mingled in the woods, through which they had run hand in hand, though with every moment the sunset glow left some golden birch or scarlet cherry; and down among the tall, silver firs by the house a faint white mist was beginning to rise over the trim lawns.
"It is growing chill, Paul!" said an anxious voice.
"To be continued in our next, Blazes; your aunt is inexorable!" The tone was gracious as ever, but thinner, as Paul Macleod rose from his lounge chair.
"But, Uncle Paul! How many runs did you make?" cried Blasius, eagerly. It had been his first term at Harrow, and this tale he had been hearing of past prowess in cricket was too interesting to be thus left pointless.
"How many? I forget. Perhaps your aunt will remember----"
A little spasm of pain passed over Violet's face. "How lazy you are, Paul! You will end by remembering nothing."
"Why should I remember when you do it so much better than I? It was a good lot, Blasius, and I recollect being awfully proud at the time. But these things slip by, somehow. When you are as old as I am----"