He spent the day in a curious manner for a man of his position, under a
yew-tree, riven of trunk, gigantic, black, commanding Edward's house.
He leant against the trunk that had seen so many generations, shadowed
so many fox-earths, groaned in so many tempests.

Above his tent sailed those hill-wanderers, the white clouds of May.
They were as fiercely pure, as apparently imperishable, as a great
ideal. With lingering majesty they marched across the sky, first over
the parsonage, then over Reddin, laying upon each in turn a hyacinth
shadow.

Reddin watched the house indifferently, while Martha went to and fro
cleaning the chapel after the wedding.

Then Mrs. Marston came to the front door and shut it.

After that, for a long time, nothing moved but the slow shadows of the
gravestones, shortening with the climbing sun. The laburnum waved
softly, and flung its lacy shadow on the grave where the grass was long
and daisied.

A wood-pigeon began in its deep and golden voice a low soliloquy
recollected as a saint's, rich as a lover's. Reddin stirred
disconsolately, trampling the thin leaves and delicate flowers of the
sorrel.

At last the door opened, and Edward came out carrying a spade.

Hazel followed. They went round to the side of the house away from the