The two lying cheek by cheek knew now that they could die in peace.

The sing-song voice rose again in the ceremony of blessing, but suddenly
it quavered and broke, the man rose, dropping the prayer-book to the
floor, and ran quickly out of the room and into the dust of the street,
and on, on into the plains.

"In the name of God, who is he?" said Dicky Merritt to Victoria Lindley.

"He was the Reverend Jones Leverton, of Harfordon-Thames," was her reply.

"Once a priest, always a priest," added Dicky. "He'll never come back,"
said the girl, tears dropping from her eyes.

And she was right.






OLD ROSES

It was a barren country, and Wadgery was generally shrivelled with heat,
but he always had roses in his garden, on his window-sill, or in his
button-hole. Growing flowers under difficulties was his recreation.
That was why he was called Old Roses. It was not otherwise inapt, for
there was something antique about him, though he wasn't old; a flavour,
an old-fashioned repose and self-possession. He was Inspector of Tanks