It was one of those perfect September days that fall sometimes as a gift from heaven after the bargain of summer has been more or less concluded.  As he rode all that afternoon through lanes and across uplands, his view barred always to the north by the great downs above Royston, grey-blue against the radiant sky, there was scarcely a hint in earth or heaven of any emotion except prevailing peace.  Yet the very serenity tortured him the more by its mockery.  The birds babbled in the deep woods, the cheerful noise of children reached him now and again from a cottage garden, the mellow light smiled unending benediction, and yet his subconsciousness let go for never an instant of the long elm box six feet below ground, and of its contents lying there in the stifling dark, in the long-grassed churchyard on the hill above his home.

He wondered now and again as to the fate of the spirit that had informed the body and made it what it was; but his imagination refused to work.  After all, he asked himself, what were all the teachings of theology but words gabbled to break the appalling silence?  Heaven ...  Purgatory ...  Hell.  What was known of these things?  The very soul itself—­what was that?  What was the inconceivable environment, after all, for so inconceivable a thing...?

He did not need these things, he said—­certainly not now—­nor those labels and signposts to a doubtful, unimaginable land.  He needed Amy herself, or, at least, some hint or sound or glimpse to show him that she indeed was as she had always been; whether in earth or heaven, he did not care; that there was somewhere something that was herself, some definite personal being of a continuous consciousness with that which he had known, characterized still by those graces which he thought he had recognized and certainly loved.  Ah! he did not ask much.  It would be so easy to God!  Here out in this lonely lane where he rode beneath the branches, his reins loose on his horse’s neck, his eyes, unseeing, roving over copse and meadow across to the eternal hills—­a face, seen for an instant, smiling and gone again; a whisper in his ear, with that dear stammer of shyness; a touch on his knee of those rippling fingers that he had watched in the moonlight playing gently on the sluice-gate above the moonlit stream....  He would tell no one if God wished it to be a secret; he would keep it wholly to himself.  He did not ask now to possess her; only to be certain that she lived, and that death was not what it seemed to be.

* * * * *

“Is Father Mahon at home?” he asked, as he halted a mile from his own house in the village, where stood the little tin church, not a hundred yards from its elder alienated sister, to which he and Maggie went on Sundays.

The housekeeper turned from her vegetable-gathering beyond the fence, and told him yes.  He dismounted, hitched the reins round the gatepost, and went in.

Ah! what an antipathetic little room this was in which he waited while the priest was being fetched from upstairs!