ings," she said with reverence. "It's my—it's everything to me."
Together they read the inscription on the gray cross.
To the Memory
of
ARTHUR POWELL
buried at Sea
February 7, 18—
Lat. 10° 24' 17" N. Long. 135° 0' 43" W.
"He was my brother," said Helen, almost in a whisper. "Older than I, and dearer to me than any one else. I can't remember my mother, but he seems to have been here only yesterday. You were just his age, and somehow like him: that was what made my father—made him more sad even than usual, last night."
The gulls complained in the wide solitude of the air.
"This is your church," said Archer, at last. "And if your brother were here, I would tell him just what I told you outside."
The girl gave him her hand with a kind of grave joy.
"Perhaps he hears you," she said, and
