They were not talking much now; one of them was thinking of a
pair of gray eyes.
At last they came to a turnstile, and, passing through that, found
themselves in one of those wide meadows; at the farther side of it the
red-tiled roof, the gray belfry, and slated spire of Winstead Church
just showed above the masses of green foliage. They crossed the meadow
and entered the churchyard. A perfect silence reigned over the place;
they could not hear what was going on within the small building; out
here there was no sound save the chirping of the birds and the
continuous murmur of the trees. They walked about, looking thoughtfully
at the gravestones--many of them bearing names familiar enough to them
in bygone years. And perhaps one or other of them may have been fancying
that when the great, busy world had done with him--and used him up and
thrown him aside--here at least there would be peace preserved for
him--an ample sufficiency of rest under this greensward, with perhaps a
few flowers put there by some kindly hand. The dead did not seem to need
much pity on this tranquil day.
Then into this universal silence came suddenly a low, booming sound that
caused Lionel Moore's heart to stand still: it was the church
organ--that awakened a multitude of associations and recollections, that
seemed to summon up the vanished years and the dreams of his youth, when
it was he himself who used to sit at the instrument and call forth those
massive chords and solemn tones.
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