"Yes, we'll come into the house, of course. But I should like to know how Betty was right."
"Why you wanted to kiss her years ago. I knew it, and I said it. Didn't you, now?"
"Speak the trufe," suddenly commanded Gerry.
"Yes, I did," replied Carr.
When Adrian Carr left the rectory that evening he had to walk down the dusty road which led straight past the church and the little village school-house to the railway station. This road was full of associations to him, and he walked slowly, thinking of past scenes, thanking God for his present blessings.
"It was here, by the turnstile, I first saw Lilias," he said to himself. "She and Marjory were standing together, and she came forward and looked at me, and asked me in that sweet voice of hers if I were not Mr. Carr. She reminded me of her brother, whom I just barely knew. It was a fleeting likeness, seen more at first than afterwards.
"Here, by this little old school-house the villagers stood and rejoiced the last day Gerald came home. Poor Wyndham—most blessed and most miserable of men. Well, he is at rest now, and even here I see the cross which throws a shadow over his grave!"
Carr looked at his watch. There was time. He entered the little church-yard. A green mound, a white cross, several wreaths of flowers, marked the spot where one who had been much loved in life lay until the resurrection. The cross was so placed as to bend slightly over the grave as though to protect it. It bore a very brief inscription:—
In Peace.
GERALD WYNDHAM.
Aged 27.