The cathedral loomed up suddenly, all aglow with light within. Out into the night came the dirge of the organ for the dying year.
The Bishop kept his eyes fixed on the pane. The houses were left behind. They were in the country.
"Who is that?" said Rachel, suddenly, as a long shadow ran beside them along the white hedgerow.
"It is only Dick. There is a rise in the ground here, and he is running to ease the horses."
There was a long silence.
"I believe he did it on purpose," said Rachel, at last. "I forsook him in his great need, and now he has forsaken me."
"He would never forsake you, Rachel."
"Not knowingly," she said. "I did it knowing. That is the difference between him and me."
She did not speak again.
For a lifetime, as it seemed to the Bishop, the carriage swayed from side to side of the white road. At last, when he had given up all hope, it turned into a field and jolted heavily over the frozen ruts. Then it came to a stand-still.