lantern under her cloak; but, within, the church was light enough for
Rosewarne to grope his way to his accustomed pew. Hester saw him take his
seat there, and choosing a pew at some distance, in the shadow of the
south aisle, dropped on her knees.

Nothing happened. The tall figure in the chancel sat motionless.
Rosewarne did not even pray--since he did not believe in God. But because
a woman, now long dead, had believed and had implored him to believe also,
that they two might one day meet in heaven, he consecrated this night to
her, sitting in the habitation of her faith, keeping his gaze upon that
spot in the darkness where on a bright Sunday morning a young soldier had
caught sight of her and met her eyes for the first time. Year after year
he had kept this vigil, concentrating his thought upon her and her faith;
but never for an instant had that faith come near to touching him, except
with a sentimental pity which he rejected, despising it; never had he come
near to piercing the well of that mysterious comfort and releasing its
waters. To him the dust of the great dead yonder in the Beauchamp
Chapel--dust of men and women who had died in faith--was dust merely,
arid, unbedewed by any promise of a life beyond. They had played their
parts, and great tombs and canopies covered their final nothingness.
This was the last time he would watch, and to-night he knew there was less
chance than ever of any miracle; for weariness weighed on him, and the
thought of coming annihilation held no terror, but only an invitation to
be at rest.

From the tower overhead the airy chimes floated over Warwick, beating out
a homely tune to mingle with homely dreams. He sat on, nor stirred.

The June dawn broke, with the twittering of birds in the churchyard.
He stood up and stretched himself, with a frown for the painted windows
with their unreal saints and martyrs. His footsteps as he walked down the
aisle did not arouse the girl, who slept in the corner of the pew, with
her loosened hair pencilling, as the dawn touched it, lines of red-gold
light upon the dark panels. Her face was pale, and sleep gave it a
childlike beauty. He understood, as he stooped and touched her shoulder,
why the apparition of her on the river-bank had so startled him.

"Come, child," he said; "the night is over."

CHAPTER V.

THE CLOSE OF A STEWARDSHIP.

A strange impatience haunted Rosewarne on his homeward journey; an almost
intolerable