Chapter 37

⁠​​​‌​​​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌‌‌⁠'Weep with me, all you that read

 This little story,

And know, for whom a tear you shed,

 Death's self is sorry.'

It is Sunday. The Lapwing is ploughing her way through a short chopping sea in the Bay of Biscay; and here at home, at Roupell, the people are issuing in a little quiet stream from afternoon church. They are coming out rather later, and with rather more alacrity than usual, both