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.