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 "Of some relation or dear friend who has passed over?"

"Oh no," she said vaguely, "I know so many people who have died, but I think none of them would care about a window."

"Then you have no particular purpose?"

"I think coloured windows are so beautiful. They make one feel so religious and good."

The Vicar was nonplussed; he wished to say a great deal to her but did not know how to begin. Her ingenuousness half touched and half offended him. She was not young, either; he could hardly explain her to himself as young. Yet standing up so straight among the slanting tombstones she had no congruity with the year's decline; the monotone of twilight, the sullen evening with its colourless falling leaves rejected her; she was not elderly, he thought. She was perennial, there was that about her that displeased the Vicar; she was theatrical. Having placed her, he felt more at ease.

He said: "I will place your very kind offer before the Vestry," and took a few steps in the direction of the lych-gate. She looked