It lay in the prettiest, most retired part of the churchyard, half-hidden under a wide-spreading yew.

Gilbert Fenton sat down upon a low wall near at hand for a long time, brooding over his broken life, and wishing himself at rest beneath that solemn shelter.
"She never loved me," he said to himself bitterly.

"I shut my eyes obstinately to the truth, or I might have discovered the secret of her indifference by a hundred signs and tokens.

I fancied that a man who loved a woman as I loved her must succeed in winning her heart at last.
And I accepted her girlish trust in me, her innocent gratitude for my attentions, as the evidence of her love.

Even at the last, when she wanted to release me, I would not understand.