"Please wait a moment. I want to see it."
I followed Betty when she got out of the coach, and, as we approached the shrine, she exclaimed: "Doctor Lilly was right! There is no snow on the shrine. The Virgin protects it. There must be a relic beneath the stones!"
We climbed a little hillock and after standing before the shrine for a moment, Betty said, "Please return to the coach and leave me alone."
"Why, Betty?" I asked. "You may speak plainly to me. I think I know your motive."
"I want to offer a little prayer to the Virgin here at her broken shrine—a prayer for your cousin and for you—and for me."
I knelt with her, and after Betty had finished her simple invocation, we rose, and I, who at another time would have laughed at the prayer, felt the thrill of her whispered words lingering in my heart. I seemed to know that we should rescue Frances, and I also knew that my love for Bettina would bring me nothing but joy, softened and sanctified by sadness, and to her nothing of evil save the pain of a gentle longing.
Betty felt as I did, for when she rose she said, "Now we shall find
Mistress Jennings, and, Baron Ned, I shall fear you no more."
"Have you feared me?" I asked, touched to the quick by her artless candor.
"Yes," she answered, sighing. "Though I have feared myself more. You are so far above me in every way that it is no wonder I am bewildered when you say—say—that you—. You know what I mean."
"Yes, Betty," I answered quickly, feeling that she had more to say.