A few moments later he uncovered.
It was snowing heavily when he turned to leave; and he stood back and aside, hat in hand, to permit a young woman to pass the iron gateway--a slim figure in black, heavy veil drawn, arms piled high with lilies.

He knew her at once and she knew him.
"I think you are Mr.Hamil," she said timidly.
"You are Miss Wilming ?" he said in his naturally pleasant voice, which brought old memories crowding upon her and a pale flush to her cheeks.
There was a moment's silence; she dropped some flowers and he recovered them for her.

Then she knelt down in the sleet, unconscious of it, and laid the flowers on the mound, arranging them with great care, while the thickening snow pelted her and began to veil the white blossoms on the grave.
Hamil hesitated after the girl had risen, and, presently, as she did not stir, he quietly asked if he might be of any use to her.
At first she made no reply, and her gaze remained remote; then, turning: "Was he your friend ?" she asked wistfully.
"I think he meant to be." "You quarrelled--down there--in the South"-- she made a vague gesture toward the gray horizon.

"Do you remember that night, Mr.Hamil ?" "Yes." "Did you ever become friends again ?" "No....

I think he meant to be....