"Come into the garden," she said, her eyes full of pity. "Now that it is light we have a better chance; we may find something."
He followed her across the dewy lawn, as she led the way quickly to the untidy corner so eloquent of the little workers. Spades and baskets lay scattered about; a cap of Sandy's hung on a currant-bush, where it had been put to dry after the washing in the bath; a large fragment of bread and butter, dropped in the hasty departure, lay in the path. The tears at last welled into Marjorie's eyes, as she saw Mr. Pelham stoop and pick up a little shoe.
"It is my baby's," he said softly. "God keep her!"
They paused together on the garden path, and Marjorie's eyes turned to the rose-tinged pinnacles of the beautiful cathedral. To all the dwellers in its precincts it was almost like a living presence, dominating all their lives and thoughts.
The length of the choir, terminating in the big central tower, was before them, whilst in the distance rose the twin spires. The morning mist was fleeing before the sun, now lighting each finial. Shadows still lay under the flying buttresses, and along the lower plane of the south aisle roof and chapel.
Mr. Pelham, after a moment's look at the girl's rapt face, turned also to gaze at the scene on which her eyes were resting.
Suddenly Marjorie gave a little cry, instantly suppressed.
"What is that?" she said rapidly. "See! on that little tower on the chapel?"
"I see," he answered, "something fluttering, you mean—something blue."
Both pairs of eyes were concentrated in a fixed and painful gaze.