“I am on my way to ‘The Sleeping Queen,’” he said, “to see your brother—but I have time upon my hands.”
She looked up at him; the sunshine touched his face and his plain dark attire.
He smiled again.
“Will you be sorry when I leave for France?” he said.
The brown eyes widened.
“Why do you ask?” she murmured faintly.
“My faith—I wondered.”
“Why, sir, do you, can you care whether it matters to me or no?” cried Delia, a little wildly.
“Yes, I care,” he answered.
There was a pause; the singing had ceased. Delia bent her head and rested unseeing eyes upon the bishop’s tombstone.