Which proved indeed to be the case. "I knew it was you," the girl began, almost breathless as she came up to them. "The beadle said it was you, Harvey; Julia walked to the church with me, and she's waiting till I join. I thought perhaps we might go in together; I don't want to go in alone." Harvey could see in the dim light how eagerly the girl's eyes were searching his mother's face. He did not withdraw his hand, but unconsciously straightened himself in quiet dignity.
"This is my mother," he said simply, quite unfamiliar with the modes of introduction; "and that's Miss Borland, mother."
"Please don't say that," the girl interrupted. "I think you might call me Madeline; anyhow, I heard you call me Madeline to your mother," as she stepped gently around the foot of the grave and extended her hand to Harvey's mother. The older woman was evidently struck by the girl's beauty, by the simple grace and kindliness of her manner. At any rate she held the outstretched hand rather long in hers, gazing on the sweet face upturned in the quivering light.
"And this—this is my sister's grave," Harvey's subdued voice added a moment later.
The girl said nothing, turning a solemn gaze upon the lowly mound. She had been long familiar with the quiet acre, but this was perhaps the first time she had realized the dread personality that clothes the grave with dignity.
"You haven't any treasure here, have you, Miss Madeline?" the mother asked timidly, when the pause had become almost painful.
"No, not any," the girl answered in hushed tones; "we haven't even got a plot—I never had a little sister," she affirmed, the moistening eyes turning now to Harvey's face. He looked down, then up again, and the soulful gaze was still fixed upon him. A kind of wave, strange and unfamiliar, seemed to bathe his soul; he did not wish to look longer, and yet a sort of spell seemed to keep his eyes fastened on her face. The girl's look was eloquent of much that neither he nor she was able to interpret, the first venture out to sea on the part of either soul.
"Doesn't it seem strange that we should meet here—here at your sister's grave," she said slowly, after the gaze of both had fallen. "Of course, we've often seen each other at school—but this is our first real meeting, isn't it?" she went on, gazing now towards the light that twinkled feebly in the distant church.
"Yes," he answered simply, "yes, it is—I guess we'd better go. Do you know the catechism?" he digressed, beginning to move forward, half leading his mother by the hand.
"No, I don't. Father doesn't believe in catechisms,—I wanted him to join along with me, but he said he wasn't good enough. Only he said he'd see—it would be just like him to come without my knowing."