Colonel Churchill drew a long sigh, wiped his face with his handkerchief, and looked miserably up to the green boughs where the mockingbird was singing.

He wished again for Edward, and he wished that Henry had not died.

He believed in Heaven, and he knew that Henry was there, but then the thought came into his mind that Henry was here, too, in the person of his child, prone on the summer-house steps.

Henry, also, had been a man of his word, had known his own mind, and exercised his will.

There, too, had been the veil of sweetness! The Colonel sighed more heavily, wished again impatiently for Edward, then marched to the summer-house, and, sitting down, began to reason with Henry's daughter.
Rand passed through the Fontenoy garden, in his heart a pain that was triumph, an exaltation that was pain.