She felt it, but it was so slight, so almost imperceptible, she feared that she might have been mistaken in the little sound she heard, which seemed unlike the usual noises she knew so well.

She held her breath, as the sound seemed very long in returning.

At last it came again, louder than before, but equally confused.

She would have said it came from a great distance, that it was a scarcely-defined step, and that the trembling of the air announced the approach of something out of sight and out of hearing.
That which she was expecting came slowly from the invisible slight movement of what surrounded her.

Little by little it disengaged itself from her dream, like a realisation of the vague longings of her youth.
Was it the Saint George of the chapel window, who had come down from his place and was walking on the grass in silence towards her?
Just then, by chance, the altar-light was dimmed, so that she could not distinguish the faintest outline of the figures on the painted glass, but all seemed like a blue cloud of vapoury mist.