There was no hint of happiness in his long narrow face, dull sunken eyes, and bloodless compressed lips.

His expression was not that of one unable to tear himself away from the last glimpse of a loved wife fallen from his arms into the clutch of Death.

It was the gaze of one immersed in anxious thought.
The mourners, who had just left the churchyard, awaited him by a rude stone cross near the entrance to the church.

There were six--four men, a woman, and a girl.

In the road close by stood the motor-car which had brought them to the churchyard in the wake of the hearse, glistening incongruously in the grey Cornish setting of moorland and sea.
The girl stood a little apart from the others.