not see Isobel for a year. It would be a very long year in which he did not see Isobel. He had forgotten that when his father told him that he was to go to Switzerland. Now the fact was painfully present. 

 He came on up the long nave and Isobel, awakening, saw him. 

 “You are late,” she said in a softer voice than was usual to her. “Well, I don’t mind, for I have been dreaming. I think I went to sleep upon my feet. I dreamed,” she added, pointing to the brass, “that I was that lady and—oh! all sorts of things. Well, she had her day no doubt, and I mean to have mine before I am as dead and forgotten as she is. Only I would like to be buried here. I’ll be cremated and have my ashes put under that stone; they won’t hurt her.” 

 “Don’t talk like that,” he said with a little shiver, for her words jarred upon him. 

 “Why not? It is as well to face things. Look at all these monuments about us, and inscriptions, a lot of them to young people, though now it doesn’t matter if they were old or young. Gone, every one of them and quite forgotten, though some were great folk in their time. Gone utterly and for always, nothing left, except perhaps descendants in a labourer’s cottage here and there who never even heard of them.” 

 “I don’t believe it,” he said almost passionately, “I believe that they are living for ever and ever, perhaps as you and I, perhaps elsewhere.” 

 “I wish I could,” she answered, smiling, “for then my dream might have been true, and you might have been that knight whose brass is lost,” and she pointed to an empty matrix alongside that of the great Plantagenet lady. 

 Godfrey glanced at the inscription which was left when the Cromwellians tore up the brass. 

 “He was her husband,” he said, translating, “who died on the field of Crecy in 1346.” 

 “Oh!” exclaimed Isobel, and was silent. 

 Meanwhile Godfrey, quite undisturbed, was spelling out the inscription beneath the figure of the knight’s wife, and remarked presently: 

 “She seems to have died a year before him. Yes, just after marriage, the monkish Latin says, and—what is it? Oh! I see, ‘in sanguine,’ that is, in blood, whatever that may mean. Perhaps she was murdered. I say, Isobel, I wish you would copy someone else’s dress for your party.” 

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