She was there, and that was enough.
He woke again a little after dawn.

Petsy between the window and the door had jumped on to his bed to get out of the draught of the morning wind.
For the door was opened.
That morning the coffin was carried down the long winding path above the deep-water reach, where Michael and Francis at Christmas had heard the sound of stealthy rowing, and on to the boat that awaited it to ferry it across to the church.

There was high tide, and, as they passed over the estuary, the stillness of supreme noon bore to them the tolling of the bell.

The mourners from the house followed, just three of them, Lord Ashbridge, Michael, and Aunt Barbara, for the rest were to assemble at the church.

But of all that, one moment stood out for Michael above all others, when, as they entered the graveyard, someone whom he could not see said: "I am the Resurrection and the Life," and he heard that his father, by whom he walked, suddenly caught his breath in a sob.
All that day there persisted that sense of complete detachment from all but her whose body they had laid to rest on the windy hill overlooking the broad water.