"Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. She speedily reached her own abode,—a little cottage, standing in the outskirts of the village. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. He shall have the estates. You're a queer lad. Returning to the churchyard, he walked round it; and on the western side, near a small yew-tree discovered a new-made grave.
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