The cross stood on a piece of level turf, unbroken by any mound, and I knew that it was simply a memorial-cross, for one whose dust reposed elsewhere, even before reading the simple inscription:—
_In loving Memory of_ ARTHUR FORESTER, M.D. _whose mortal remains lie buried by the sea: whose spirit has returned to God who gave it_.
_“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”_
She threw back her veil on seeing me approach, and came forwards to meet me, with a quiet smile, and far more self-possessed than I could have expected.
“It is quite like old times, seeing _you_ here again!” she said, in tones of genuine pleasure. “Have you been to see my father?”
“No,” I said: “I was on my way there, and came through here as the shortest way. I hope he is well, and you also?”
“Thanks, we are both quite well. And you? Are you any better yet?”
“Not much better, I fear: but no worse, I am thankful to say.”
“Let us sit here awhile, and have a quiet chat,” she said. The calmness—almost indifference—of her manner quite took me by surprise. I little guessed what a fierce restraint she was putting upon herself.
“One can be so quiet here,” she resumed. “I come here every—every day.”
“Yes, but I delayed writing. It is so hard to say—on _paper_—”
“I know. It was kind of you. You were with us when we saw the last of——” She paused a moment, and went on more hurriedly. “I went down to the harbour several times, but no one knows which of those vast graves it is. However, they showed me the house he died in: that was some comfort. I stood in the very room where—where——.” She struggled in vain to go on. The flood-gates had given way at last, and the outburst of grief was the most terrible I had ever witnessed. Totally regardless of my presence, she flung herself down on the turf, burying her face in the grass, and with her hands clasped round the little marble cross, “Oh, my darling, my darling!” she sobbed. “And God meant your life to be so beautiful!”
I was startled to hear, thus repeated by Lady Muriel, the very words of the darling child whom I had seen weeping so bitterly over the dead hare. Had some mysterious influence passed, from that sweet fairy-spirit, ere she went back to Fairyland, into the human spirit that loved her so dearly? The idea seemed too wild for belief. And yet, are there not ‘_more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy_’?