till she had made herself tidy.

The next day but one she took Harold for a walk in the afternoon.
When they were quite alone and out of earshot she said:

'I have been thinking all night about poor mother. Of course I know
she cannot be moved from the crypt. She must remain there. But
there needn't be all that dust. I want you to come there with me
some time soon. I fear I am afraid to go alone. I want to bring
some flowers and to tidy up the place. Won't you come with me this
time? I know now, Harold, why you didn't let me go in before. But
now it is different. This is not curiosity. It is Duty and Love.
Won't you come with me, Harold?'

Harold leaped from the edge of the ha-ha where he had been sitting
and held up his hand. She took it and leaped down lightly beside
him.

'Come,' he said, 'let us go there now!' She took his arm when they
got on the path again, and clinging to him in her pretty girlish way
they went together to the piece of garden which she called her own;
there they picked a great bunch of beautiful white flowers. Then
they walked to the old church. The door was open and they passed in.
Harold took from his pocket a tiny key. This surprised her, and
heightened the agitation which she naturally suffered from revisiting
the place. She said nothing whilst he opened the door to the crypt.
Within, on a bracket, stood some candles in glass shades and boxes of
matches. Harold lit three candles, and leaving one of them on the
shelf, and placing his cap beside it, took the other two in his
hands. Stephen, holding her flowers tightly to her breast with her