Some nameless thing linked each mournful detail of to-day to the tragedy of long ago.

.

.

.

And then mercifully the thing became a blur of November wind, a monotonous voice of sorrow, the thud of earth and the end.
The coach toiled up the hill and Kenny, with Joan in his arms, forgot.
"Mavourneen," he said wistfully, "let's slip away, you and I, to the cabin in the pines.