He saw the severe lines of the wimple, the folds of the flowing veil, the delicate movement of the long fingers, and--yes!--resting upon her bosom the jewelled cross, sign of her high office.
Thus looking back, he vividly recalled the extraordinary restfulness of sitting there in silence, while she worked.

No words were needed.

Her very presence, and the fact that she knew him to be weary, rested him.
He looked again.

But now the folds of the wimple and veil were gone.
A golden circlet clasped the shining softness of her hair.
The Bishop opened tired eyes, and fixed them once again upon the landscape.
He supposed the long rides on two successive days had exhausted him physically; and the strain of securing and ensuring the safety and happiness of the woman who was dearer to him than life, had reacted now in a mental lassitude which seemed unable to rise up and face the prospect of the lonely years to come.
The thought of her as now with the Knight, did not cause him suffering.
His one anxiety was lest anything unforeseen should arise, to prevent the full fruition of their happiness.
He had never loved her as a man loves the woman he would wed;--at least, if that side of his love had attempted to arise, it had instantly been throttled and flung back.
It seemed to him that, from the very beginning he had ever loved her as Saint Joseph must have loved the maiden intrusted to his keeping--his, yet not his; called, in the inspired dream, "Mary, thy wife"; but so called only that he might have the right to guard and care for her--she who was shrine of the Holiest, o'ershadowed by the power of the Highest; Mother of God, most blessed Virgin forever.
It seemed to the Bishop that his joy in watching over Mora, since his appointment to the See of Worcester, had been such as Saint Joseph could well have understood; and now he had accomplished the supreme thing; and, in so doing, had left himself desolate.
On the afternoon of the previous day, so soon as the body of the old lay-sister had been removed from the Prioress's cell, the Bishop had gathered together all those things which Mora specially valued and which she had asked him to secure for her; mostly his gifts to her.
The Sacramentaries, from which she so often made copies and translations, now lay upon his table.
His tired eyes dwelt upon them.

How often he had watched the firm white fingers opening those heavy clasps, and slowly turning the pages.
The books remained; yet her presence was gone.
His weary brain repeated, over and over, this obvious fact; then began a hypothetical reversal of it.