“If I could have understood you—­” he began, under his breath, then fell silent.  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....  The fault was probably mine.  I misunderstood.”

She said:  “I know he cared a great deal for you.”

The man was silent.

She turned directly toward him, pale, clear-eyed, and in the poise of her head a faint touch of pride.

“Please do not misunderstand his friendship for me, then.  If you were his friend I would not need to say this.  He was very kind to me, Mr. Hamil.”

“I do not doubt it,” said Hamil gravely.

“And you do not mistake, what I say?”

He looked her in the eyes, curious—­and, in a moment, convinced.

“No,” he said gently....  And, offering his hand:  “Men are very ignorant concerning one another.  Women are wiser, I think.”

He took the slender black-gloved hand in his.

“Can I be of the least use to you?” he asked.

“You have been,” she sighed, “if what I said has taught you to know him a little better.”

* * * * *

A week later when the curtain fell on the second act of the new musical comedy, “The Inca,” critics preparing to leave questioned each other with considerable curiosity concerning this newcomer, Dorothy Wilming, who had sung so intelligently and made so much out of a subordinate part.

Nobody seemed to know very much about her; several nice-looking young girls and exceedingly respectable young men sent her flowers.  Afterward they gathered at the stage entrance, evidently expecting to meet and congratulate her; but she had slipped away.  And while they hunted high and low, and the last figurante had trotted off under the lamp-lights, Dolly lay in her own dark room, face among the pillows, sobbing her heart out for a dead man who had been kind to her for nothing.