“Ah!”
John heard the little gasp of pleasure.
She came to a sitting posture, the treasures gathered on to her lap. John saw her face plainly. The ribbon and thimble were examined with sheer and palpable delight. The rosary was handled gravely; there was the tiniest hint of question in the handling. Then suddenly she lifted it to her lips. The next moment she was on her knees again, telling the beads devoutly.
“If,” quoth John to himself, “I am not much mistaken, ’tis that young limb of mischief, Molly Biddulph.”
And there she knelt in the sunshine, among the heather, looking, for all the world, a young, rapt devotee of prayer, the scarlet beads falling through her small brown fingers. Her eyes were closed; her lips moved rapidly. Here was matter for a poet’s pen; a subject for an artist’s brush. The soft wind stirred the dark hair on her forehead, the sun kissed her bronzed cheeks. A butterfly flitted to her shoulder, lighted a moment, circled round her head, and flew away.
Coming to an end of her orisons, she made a great Sign of the Cross, got to her feet, and sped away down the hill, clutching her treasures tightly.
John came from behind the gorse bush.
“Well!” said he aloud.
“It might be called a pretty little scene,” said a voice behind him.
Turning, amazed, he met a pair of laughing eyes, saw a white-robed figure, and two attendant knights.