Twas past three in the afternoon, and snow clouds were fast covering up the last grey gleam of the December day, as Godwin, wishing that his road was longer, walked to Steeple church across the meadow.

At the door of it he met the two serving women coming out with brooms in their hands, and bearing between them a great basket filled with broken meats and foul rushes.

Of them he asked if the Lady Rosamund were still in the church, to which they answered, curtseying: "Yes, Sir Godwin; and she bade us desire of you that you would come to lead her to the Hall when she had finished making her prayers before the altar." "I wonder," mused Godwin, "whether I shall ever lead her from the altar to the Hall, or whether--I shall bide alone by the altar ?" Still he thought it a good omen that she had bidden him thus, though some might have read it otherwise.
Godwin entered the church, walking softly on the rushes with which its nave was strewn, and by the light of the lamp that burnt there always, saw Rosamund kneeling before a little shrine, her gracious head bowed upon her hands, praying earnestly.

Of what, he wondered--of what?
Still, she did not hear him; so, coming into the chancel, he stood behind her and waited patiently.

At length, with a deep sigh, Rosamund rose from her knees and turned, and he noted by the light of the lamp that there were tear-stains upon her face.
Perhaps she, too, had spoken with the Prior John, who was her confessor also.