It was under the yew tree that the boy and the girl met. She was kneeling there, her frock gleaming white in the moonlight as Hugh came through the trees, and for a time he watched her without speaking. Two and a half years—more—since he had seen her, and now it seemed to him that she was more lovely than ever. His eyes took in every detail of her, as she bent forward and laid both her hands on the little grave, and, suddenly, with a great wave of wonder, he realized that all the bitterness had gone from his soul. The past was blotted out—sponged from the slate; he was alive again, and the present—why, the present held out beckoning hands of welcome.
"Beryl," he whispered very low, but not so low that she failed to hear him.
"Why, Hugh, dear," she answered. "I was afraid you'd go away without seeing me."
"I should, if—Tommy had been alive."
He knelt beside her, and together they rearranged two or three of the stones.
"I put a bit of paper here," he said, after a moment.
"I found it," she answered. "That's how I knew you were here—first. Oh! Hugh"—almost unconsciously she found herself in his arms—"poor little chap! And I'd been telling him all last week he'd be seeing you soon."
"You darling!" The boy's voice was husky. "He knows—Tommy knows."
And so for a while they clung together, while the scent of the summer flowers drifting idly by mingled with the scent of her hair.
"If he'd been here, Beryl, I was going to take him," he said, at last. "I was bitter—dear heavens! but I was bitter. I felt I didn't even want to see you. We were going hunting together—just he and I—out in the wilds."