She took out her hat, and was on her way to silence the bell-ringer, when Mr. Clare was driven up to the churchyard gate.

Lord Keith had been greatly shocked, but not overpowered, he had spoken calmly, and made minute inquiries, and Mr. Clare was evidently a little disappointed, repeating that age and health made a difference, and that people showed their feelings in various ways.  Colonel Keith had been met at the station, and was with his brother, but would come to make arrangements in the course of the day.  Rachel begged to stop the bell, representing that the assembled congregation included no male person capable of reading the lessons; but Mr. Clare answered, “No, my dear, this is not a day to do without such a beginning.  We must do what we can.  Or stay, it is the last chapter of St. John.  I could hardly fail in that.  Sit near me, and give me the word if I do, unless you want to be with Alick.”

As Rachel knelt that day, the scales of self-conceit seemed to have gone.  She had her childhood’s heart again.  Her bitter remorse, her afterthoughts of perplexity had been lulled in the long calm of the respite, and when roused again, even by this sudden sorrow, she woke to her old trust and hope.  And when she listened to the expressive though calm rehearsal of that solemn sunrise-greeting to the weary darkling fishers on the shore of the mountain lake, it was to her as if the form so long hidden from her by mists of her own raising, once more shone forth, smoothing the vexed waters of her soul, and she could say with a new thrill of recognition, “It is the Lord.”

Once Mr. Clare missed a word, and paused for aid.  She was crying too much to be ready, and, through her tears, could not recover the passage so as to prompt him before he had himself recalled the verse.  Perhaps a sense of failure was always good for Rachel, but she was much concerned, and her apologies quite distressed Mr. Clare.

“Dear child, no one could be expected to keep the place when there was so much to dwell on in the very comfort of the chapter.  And now if you are not in haste, would you take me to the place that dear Bessie spoke of, by the willow-tree.  I am almost afraid little Mary Lawrence’s grave may have left too little space.”

Rachel guided him to a lovely spot, almost overhanging the stream, with the dark calm pools beneath the high bank, and the willow casting a long morning shadow over it.  Her mind went back to the merry drive from Avoncester, when she had first seen Elizabeth Keith, and had little dreamt that in one short year she should be choosing the spot for her grave.  Mr. Clare paced the green nook and was satisfied, asking if it were not a very pretty place.

“Yes,” said Rachel, “there is such a quiet freshness, and the willow-tree seems to guard it.”

“Is there not a white foxglove on the bank?”

“Yes, but with only a bell or two left at the top of the side spikes.”