To his memory all days were sacred; but one, that of his burial,
marked itself for Jane as the point in each year to which her life
was directed, the saddest, yet bringing with it her supreme solace.
A day in early spring, cloudy, cold. She left the workroom in the
dinner-hour, and did net return. But instead of going to Hanover
Street, she walked past Islington Green, all along Essex Road,
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.
Pages:
731
732
733
734
735
736
737
738
739
740
741
742
743
744