He closed his eyes and gave himself up to the exquisite enchantment. The purity of each remembrance of her love and his, filled him with a sense of heavenly rapture.
“My perfect one; my Angel of Delight!”
The door opened softly. An elderly woman appeared, stout and matronly, carrying a cup on a small tray. She advanced to the side of the bed.
He had never seen her before. He studied the kind, homely face, the neat black gown, the silk apron, the cairngorm brooch. Then from the depths of the well came up an intuition and, almost before he knew it, he had said: “Hullo, Mary.”
The ruddy face paled. The hand holding the tray shook.
“Yes, Sir Nigel. We thought you might have wakened, Sir Nigel. I have made bold to bring you broth.”
Broth? Yes, of course. Broth and Mary would go together. He sat up, took it from her hand, and supped it hungrily.
She watched him, with eyes which held a strange mingling of love, fear, and wonder. The love, a life-long fidelity. The fear came with the remembrance of a coffin, beside which she had stood; of a grave in the churchyard on the hill side. The wonder was born of a mystery, unexplained, unaccountable, but accepted with the simple faith of a mind ruled by the heart.
“How did I get here, Mary?”
“Thomas will tell you, Sir Nigel.”