They stood there talking about the war and the past, and then Rosemary called to Rutledge, asking him to help Reginald up the stairs to lie down for a while.

He was a pale shadow of his cousin. Thinner, fairer, his features less well defined because of his suffering. Each breath was a testament to his will to live. If asked, Rutledge would have thought that Reginald was the more likely of the two men to end his own life. But there was a tenacity in his face that gave it its intense character. He thanked Rutledge as he sank back against his pillows. "I came for Rosemary's sake," he managed to say. "Not for Max's. He told me he would not expect to see me at his graveside."

"Rosemary will need your strength."

"I've loved her as long as I've known her," Reginald said. "Max was aware of that. He knew I would have come for her sake if not his."

"Rest, while you can," Rutledge said. "I'll see that she's all right."

He left the room, the sound of Reginald's raucous breathing following him even after he had pulled the door closed behind him. On the stairs he found Rosemary sitting on one of the treads, out of sight on the landing. He thought she was crying, but she was simply sitting there, quietly staring into space. She turned as she heard his footsteps, and said, "Is he all right?"

"He's resting. It's for the best."

She nodded. "He got a letter too."

"Did he?" He had said as much, but Rutledge hadn't asked him the contents.

"Everyone but me."

She stood up resolutely and walked down the stairs without looking back.

The funeral the next day was well attended, although most of the people there had known Rosemary Hume most of her life, and Max Hume only for the past eight years, four of them interrupted by war. Rutledge was glad to see that she would have support after he had left. The service was simple, stressing the qualities of the man they were gathered to bury. And then it was time to follow the wooden coffin to its final resting place.