"On particular days there were processions of the brotherhood, with lighted candles—round and round in the church. In the church at York twelve rounds made a mile, and there were twelve holes at the great door, with a little peg, so that any one curious about the matter might reckon the miles."
"And so they used to go up and down here, burning their fingers with melted tallow!" said Eleanor. "Poor creatures! What a melancholy existence! Are you preparing to renounce the world yourself, Mr. Rhys?"
He smiled, but it was a compound smile, light and earnest both at once, which Eleanor did not comprehend.
"Why do you suspect me?" he asked.
"You seem to be studying the thing. Are you going to be a white or a black monk—or a grey friar?"
"There is a prior question. It is coming on to rain, Miss Powle."
"Rain! It is beginning this minute! And all the umbrellas are nobody knows where—only that it is where we ought to be. I was glad just now that the old roof in gone—but I think I would like a piece of it back."
"You can take shelter at the parsonage."
"No, I cannot—they have got fever there."
"Then come with me. I believe I can find you a piece of roof somewhere."