“Yes, if you don’t mind. We’ve lots of time.”
Of course he didn’t mind, though he did wonder; and, after he had lovingly watched her slender figure mount the steps and disappear through the churchyard, he backed the car into a by-way, hailed a village lad and bade him keep an eye on it, and then followed her.
She was kneeling, her face bowed on her hands in prayer.
He stood still, there at the back of the church, his own head bowed, his eyes fixed on that kneeling figure that was all the world to him; and as slow minutes passed the sacred peace of the hushed and holy place stole into his own soul.
Presently she rose and joined him, and hand in hand they went out silently into the sunshine. Her eyes were misty with tears, but her face was serene and beautiful as that of an angel.
“I felt I must go, Roger, just for the little while,” she whispered. “It was for her—for poor Lady Rawson. Some people say we should not pray for the dead, but—but if it is true, and it is, that souls live for ever, they may know—I believe they do—when we who are still here, think of them gently and lovingly, and it may comfort them! And I’m sure God loves us all, His poor erring human children, however sinful we are, and—and that He wants us to think lovingly of each other.”
Too moved for words, Roger could only look down at her with an almost adoring gaze. Dearly as he loved her, he had not realized as yet the spiritual strength and sweetness of her nature, so simple, so straightforward, and so steadfast.
He felt strangely humble, yet strangely happy, and from his own heart there went up a little silent prayer: “God make me worthy of her!”
“And now for dear old Miss Culpepper,” she announced almost gaily as they settled themselves in the car once more, and Roger dismissed the attendant lad with a generous tip. “Oh, I do hope we shall find her at home, and that she can put us up. Down the hill, Roger, and the first turning. I’ll tell you where to stop.”