However that might be, she thought, his presence was now, as all through this ordeal, the thing which stood between her and utter desolation.  A few hours later, when he stood beside her at the place which was to receive that which they had brought to it, she felt as if she could not have borne the knowledge that she was laying away her only remaining kinswoman, if it had not been for the sense of protection which, even at the supreme moment, he managed to convey to her.  Her hand, as it lay upon his arm, was taken and held in a close clasp, which tightened possessively upon it, minute by minute, until it was as if the two were one in the deep emotion of the hour.

All the beauty of spring at her tenderest was in the air, as the little party turned slowly away, in the light of the late afternoon sun.  Somewhere in the distance a bird was softly calling to its mate.

Behind Charlotte and Leaver, the kindly old clergyman who had been Madam Chase’s life-long friend was gently murmuring: 

  “’Dust is dust, to dust returneth,
  Was not written of the soul.’”

Upon the evening of that day, spent as such evenings are, in subdued conversation at a hearthside, Leaver came across the room and spoke to Charlotte.

“I am wondering,” he said, “if a short walk in the night air won’t make you fitter for sleep than you look now.  It is mild and fine outside.  Will you come?”

“It will do you good, Miss Ruston,” urged her hostess, who had taken a strong liking to Dr. Leaver.  The Macauleys seconded the suggestion also, and Charlotte, somewhat reluctantly as to outward manner, but, in spite of sorrow and physical fatigue, with a strong leap of the heart, made ready.

As her companion closed the door behind them Charlotte understood that she was alone with him at last, as she had not been alone with him in all these days, even when no person was present.  She had small time in which to recognize what was coming, for, almost instantly, it was at hand.  There was a small park opposite the house, and to the deserted walk which circled it she found herself led.

“Dear,” Leaver’s voice began, in its tenderest inflection, “I have a curious feeling that no words can make it any clearer between us than it already is.  Last winter we knew how it was with us—­didn’t we?  Won’t you tell me that you knew?  It is my dearest belief that you did.”

“Yes, I knew,” Charlotte answered, very low.

“To me it was the most beautiful thing I had ever dreamed of, that two people could so understand and belong to each other before a word was said.  When the time came to speak, and—­the thing had happened that made it impossible, I can never tell you what it meant to me.  When I found you there in the North it seemed as if the last ounce had been added to the burden I was bearing.  I couldn’t ask for your friendship; I couldn’t have taken it if you had given it to me.  I had to have all or nothing.  Can you understand that?”