that something of the mystery and inviolability of the past now invested
that degraded dust, and it would be an equal impiety to disturb it. Miss
Eversleigh, again believing his agitation caused by the memory of
his old patron, tactfully hurried him away. Yet it was a more bitter
thought, I fear, that not only were his lips sealed to his charming
companion on the subject in which they could sympathize, but his anxiety
prevented him from availing himself of that interview to exchange the
lighter confidences he had eagerly looked forward to. It seemed cruel
that he was debarred this chance of knitting their friendship closer by
another of those accidents that had brought them together. And he was
aware that his gloomy abstraction was noticed by her. At first she
drew herself up in a certain proud reserve, and then, perhaps, his own
nervousness infecting her in turn, he was at last terrified to observe
that, as she stood before the tomb, her clear gray eyes filled with
tears.
"Oh, please don't do that--THERE, Miss Eversleigh," he burst out
impulsively.
"I was thinking of Cousin Jack," she said, a little startled at his
abruptness. "Sometimes it seems so strange that he is dead--I scarcely
can believe it."
"I meant," stammered Randolph, "that he is much happier--you know"--he
grew almost hysterical again as he thought of the captain lying
cheerfully in his bed at the hotel--"much happier than you or I," he
added bitterly; "that is--I mean, it grieves me so to see YOU grieve,
you know."
Miss Eversleigh did NOT know, but there was enough sincerity and real
feeling in the young fellow's voice and eyes to make her color slightly
and hurry him away to a locality less fraught with emotions. In a few
moments they entered the park, and the old Hall rose before them. It was
a great Tudor house of mullioned windows, traceries, and battlements; of
stately towers, moss-grown balustrades, and statues darkening with the
fog that was already hiding the angles and wings of its huge bulk. A
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