“After all,” he said, cheerfully, “we may find a parable in this Bosbury window which will show us how small are our differences. You and the Vicar love to see through a coloured picture; we Puritans should, as a rule, prefer the clearest glass, but we are both looking through the same outlet to the same sunlight.”
The thought appealed to her; she smiled with something of her old comprehending sweetness.
“I am very glad you spared the cross,” she said, gently, as they paused for a minute in the south porch. “If—if I pained you just now, I am sorry, Gabriel.”
“Promise me that you will at least take counsel before you again speak to Colonel Norton,” he pleaded.
“What right have you to demand promises of me?” she asked proudly.
“No right,” he said, his voice faltering, “but by the memory of your mother I implore you, Hilary.”
“I will think of it,” she said. “What! are you going?”
“I distrust that fanatic Waghorn, he may stir up the soldiers once more,” he replied. Then, with an irrepressible sigh, “’Tis like enough, Hilary, that you and I may never meet again; will you not give me that one word of comfort?”
The sudden stab of pain at the thought that this might indeed be their last meeting, broke down her pride.
“Well—I promise,” she said, gently. Then, as he bent down and kissed her hand, the familiar notes of “In trouble and adversity,” fell upon her ear. “Do you hear what they are singing?” she cried. “’Tis our psalm that we sang years ago in the Cathedral, that day when——” she broke off in confusion.