spirits. The long ride the day before had braced him physically,
though there were on his journey times of great sadness when the
thought of his father came back to him and the sense of loss was
renewed with each thought of his old home. But youth is naturally
buoyant. His visit to the church, the first thing on his arrival at
Carstone, and his kneeling before the stone made sacred to his
father's memory, though it entailed a silent gush of tears, did him
good, and even seemed to place his sorrow farther away. When he came
again in the morning before leaving Carstone there were no tears.
There was only a holy memory which seemed to sanctify loss; and his
father seemed nearer to him than ever.

As he drew near Normanstand he looked forward eagerly to seeing
Stephen, and the sight of the old church lying far below him as he
came down the steep road over Alt Hill, which was the short-cut from
Norcester, set his mind working. His visit to the tomb of his own
father made him think of the day when he kept Stephen from entering
the crypt.

The keenest thought is not always conscious. It was without definite
intention that when he came to the bridle-path Harold turned his
horse's head and rode down to the churchyard. As he pushed open the
door of the church he half expected to see Stephen; and there was a
vague possibility that Leonard Everard might be with her.

The church was cool and dim. Coming from the hot glare the August
sunshine it seemed, at the first glance, dark. He looked around, and
a sense of relief came over him. The place was empty.

But even as he stood, there came a sound which made his heart grow