And—with Mary unconsciously leading her—out came story after story, in the racy Mercian vernacular, illustrating a good man's life, and all
His little nameless unremembered acts
Of kindness and of love.
As they drove slowly home through the sad village street they perceived Henry Barron calling at some of the stricken houses. The squire was always punctilious, and his condolences might be counted on. Beside him walked a young man with a jaunty step, a bored sallow face, and a long moustache which he constantly caressed. Mary supposed him to be the squire's second son, "Mr. Maurice," whom nobody liked.
Then the church, looming through the dusk; lights shining through its fine perpendicular windows, and the sound of familiar hymns surging out into the starry twilight.
Catharine turned eagerly to her companion.
"Shall we go in?"
The emotion of one to whom religious utterance is as water to the thirsty spoke in her voice. But Mary caught and held her.
"No, dearest, no!—come home and rest." And when Catharine had yielded, and they were safely past the lighted church, Mary breathed more freely. Instinctively she felt that certain barriers had gone down before the tragic tumult, the human action of the day; let well alone!
And for the first time, as she sat in the darkness, holding her mother's hand, and watching the blackness of the woods file past under the stars, she confessed her love to her own heart—trembling, yet exultant.
* * * * *