along Essex Eoad, northward thence to Stoke Newington, and so came to Abney Park Cemetery; a long way, but it did not weary her.
In the cemetery she turned her steps to a grave with a plain headstone. Before leaving England, Joseph Snowdon had discharged this duty. The inscription was simply a name, with dates of birth and death.
And, as she stood there, other footsteps approached the spot. She looked up, with no surprise, and gave her hand for a moment. On the first anniversary the meeting had been unanticipated; the same thought led her and Sidney to the cemetery at the same hour. This was the third year, and they met as if by understanding, though neither had spoken of it.
When they had stood in silence for a while, Jane told of her father’s death and its circumstances. She told him, too, of Pennyloaf’s humble security.
“You have kept well all the year?” he asked.
“And you too, I hope?”
Then they bade each other good-bye. . . .
In each life little for congratulation. He
