In the still air a few flakes of snow were falling in a great compassion.
"Quite dead," said Hester. "Regie and the book."
And she set off running blindly across the darkening fields.
It was close on eleven o'clock. The Bishop was sitting alone in his study writing. The night was very still. The pen travelled, travelled. The fire had burned down to a red glow. Presently he got up, walked to the window, and drew aside the curtain.
"The first snow," he said, half aloud.
It was coming down gently, through the darkness. He could just see the white rim on the stone sill outside.
"I can do no more to-night," he said, and he bent to lock his despatch-box with the key on his watch-chain.
The door suddenly opened. He turned to see a little figure rush towards him, and fall at his feet, holding him convulsively by the knees.
"Hester!" he said, in amazement. "Hester!"