Then leaning a little toward him where he reclined, the weight of his body propped up on one arm, she laid her hand across his hand half buried in the grass.
"It's only another tie between us," she said--"the memory of your dead and mine.

.

.

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Will you tell me about him ?" And leaning there, eyes on the sea, and her smooth, young hand covering his, he told her of the youth who had died there in the first flush of manhood and achievement.
His voice, steady and grave, came to her through hushed intervals when the noise of the surf died out as the wind veered seaward.