was perfect as a flower or gem, and colourless except for vivid scarlet
lips and dark eyes gleaming beneath delicate dark brows. She was very
young--not more than twenty--but in the soft lines of her beauty there was
a suggestion of character beyond her years. Her face was dreamy and
wayward, and almost gipsy in type. There was something rather
disconcerting in the contrast between her air of inexperienced youth and
the sombre intensity of her dark eyes, which seemed mature and
disillusioned, like those of an older person. The slim lines of her figure
had the lissome development of a girl who spent her days out of doors.

She stood there motionless, apparently lost in meditation, indifferent to
the bitter wind which was driving across the moors with insistent force.

"Put this on, Sisily."

Sisily turned with a start. Her aunt, a large stout woman muffled in heavy
furs, was standing behind her, holding a wrap in her hand.

"You'll catch your death of cold, child, standing here in this thin
dress," the elder lady continued. "Why didn't you wear your coat? You'd be
warmer sitting in the car. It's really very selfish of Robert, keeping us
all waiting in this dreadful wind!" She shivered, and drew her furs
closer. "Why doesn't he come away? As if it could do any good!"

As she spoke the tall form of Robert Turold was seen approaching through
the rank grass and mouldering tombstones with a quick stride. He emerged
from the churchyard gate with a stern and moody face.

"Let us get home," he said, and his words were more of a command than
request.