When she was dressed that morning, she went down to her bright little breakfast parlour. Before her was the harvest-field, looking its loveliest in the early morning sunlight. As she contemplated the peaceful scene, she thought that she should feel herself a singularly fortunate being. The dead would be with her no more, alas! except in the spirit; but all else that heart could desire, was it not hers? The answer came quick, No! Something was wanting. But she did not ask herself what the something was.
The harvesters were not at work that morning, and she had not seen a soul since she sat down to breakfast; but before she left the table, a horseman came out from the farm, and rode towards her across the long field, deliberately. She watched him, absently at first, but as he approached he reminded her of the Knight of her daily vision, her saviour, who had come to rescue her in the dark days of her deep distress at Slane—
"A bowshot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves."
"The barley-sheaves!" suddenly Beth's heart throbbed and fluttered and stood still. The words had come to her as the interpretation of an augury, the fulfilment of a promise. It seemed as if she ought to have known it from the first, known that he would come like that at last, that he had been coming, coming, coming through all the years. As he drew near, the rider looked up at her, the sun shone on his face, he raised his hat. In dumb emotion, not knowing what she did, Beth reached out her hands towards him as if to welcome him. He was not the Knight of her dark days, however, this son of the morning, but the Knight of her long winter vigil—Arthur Brock.
Transcriber's note
The following have been changed, as they appear to be typesetter's errors.
All other colloquialisms, non-standard spelling, grammar and punctuation have been left as they appear in the original book.
To assist the reader, a hyperlinked chapter listing has been added to this html version.
There was no table of contents in the original book.
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