'Oh, Harold! It was too awful. I never thought, never for a moment,
that my poor dear mother was buried in the crypt. And when I went to
look at the name on the coffin that was nearest to where I was, I
knocked away the dust, and then I saw her name: "Margaret Norman,
aetat 22." I couldn't bear it. She was only a girl herself, only
just twice my age--lying there in that terrible dark place with all
the thick dust and the spiders' webs. Oh, Harold, Harold! How shall
I ever bear to think of her lying there, and that I shall never see
her dear face? Never! Never!'

He tried to soothe her by patting and holding her hands. For a good
while the resolution of the girl faltered, and she was but as a
little child. Then her habitual strength of mind asserted itself.
She did not ask Harold how she came to be out in the church instead
of in the crypt when she recovered her senses. She seemed to take it
for granted that Leonard had carried her out; and when she said how
brave it had been of him, Harold, with his customary generosity,
allowed her to preserve the belief. When they had made their way to
the gate Leonard came up to them; but before he could speak Stephen
had begun to thank him. He allowed her to do so, though the sight of
Harold's mouth set in scorn, and his commanding eyes firmly fixed on
him, made him grow hot and cold alternately. He withdrew without
speaking; and took his way home with a heart full of bitterness and
revengeful feelings.

In the park Stephen tried to dust herself, and then Harold tried to
assist her. But her white dress was incurably soiled, the fine dust
of the vault seemed to have got ingrained in the muslin. When she
got to the house she stole upstairs, so that no one might notice her