to the river Dee, and from its soft green hills descrying the
mountains of Wales.

Here in the old churchyard lay Irene's mother. She died in London,
but Dr. Derwent wished her to rest by the home of her childhood,
where Irene, too, as a little maid, had spent many a summer holiday.
Over the grave stood a simple slab of marble, white as the soul of
her it commemorated, graven thereon a name, parentage, dates of
birth and death--no more. Irene's father cared not to tell the
world how that bereavement left him.

Round about were many kindred tombs, the most noticeable that of
Mrs. Derwent's grandfather, a ripe old scholar, who rested from his
mellow meditations just before the century began.

"GULIELMI W----
Pii, docti, integri,
Reliquiae seu potius exuviae."

It was the first Latin Irene learnt, and its quaint phrasing to this
day influenced her thoughts of mortality. Standing by her mother's
grave, she often repeated to herself "_seu potius exuviae_," and
wondered whether her father's faith in science excluded the hope of
that old-world reasoning. She would not have dared to ask him, for
all the frank tenderness of their companionship. On that subject Dr.
Derwent had no word to say, no hint to let fall. She knew only that,
in speaking of her they had lost, his voice would still falter; she
knew that he always came into this churchyard alone, and was silent,
troubled, for hours after the visit. Instinctively, too, she
understood that, though her father might almost be called a young