It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. ‘His granddaughter?’ ‘Yes, his son’s daughter. Will you find your destiny, I wonder, or will you go through life like so many others—a wanderer, knocking ever at empty doors, homeless to the last? Oh, if one could but find the way to your heart. At the eastern gate of the churchyard stood the carriage with the steps lowered. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear. The decision had been sound. A thin line of red appeared in the white neck. I make no apology for not being with you now. “Annabel, I begin to see why you are here.
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