The ripple of the hill-torrent was almost inaudible, overwhelmed as it was by the roar of the gale and the low thunder of the sea--and Mary, going swiftly up the "coombe" to the churchyard, was caught by the blast like a leaf, and blown to and fro, till all her hair came tumbling about her face and almost blinded her eyes.

But she scarcely heeded this.

She was not conscious of the weather--she knew nothing of the hour.

She saw the moon--the white, cold moon, staring at her now and then between pinnacles of cloud--and whenever it gleamed whitely upon her path, she thought of David Helmsley's dead face--its still smile--its peacefully closed eyelids.

And with that face ever before her, she went to his grave.