Sir Bevis and Dame Philippa lay here in marble, their features calm and rigid, their hands folded in prayer, less human indeed, but infinitely grander than in their wax effigies of the tower.

Seven centuries of sunshine and storm had passed over their heads, and castle and church were alike in ruins.
"Their bones are dust, Their good swords rust, Their souls are with the Saints, we trust," thought Winona, as she took a photograph of the quiet scene.

It was deeply interesting, but on this glorious lovely spring day it seemed a little too sad.

With all the birds singing, and the hedges in bud, and the daisies showing white stars among the grass, she wanted to live in the present, and not in the past.

And yet, if we think about it rightly, the past is never really sad.