Annette had redeemed her promise of usefulness. Her long train was pinned about her, leaving a white skirt with the hem close to her ankles, and the flowing drapery of her sleeves was bound above the elbow, her arms being quite free. Mounted on the topmost step of an unsteady ladder, she fastened the higher flowers; lower down, at either side, Lawrence Gerald and Honora tied the lower ones. Not much was said, the few necessary words were lowly spoken; but they smiled now and then in each other’s lighted faces.
It was ten o’clock when they went out through the basement, leaving a man to extinguish the gas and lock the door. On their way to the street, they passed the priest’s house. Only one light was visible in it, and that shone in a wide-open stairway window. The light, with a shadow beside it, was approaching the window, and presently a man’s head and shoulders appeared above the high sill. Father Chevreuse had returned home, and was going up to his chamber. He stopped, holding a candle, and put out his right hand to close the window, but paused, hearing a step outside. “Who’s there?” he asked authoritatively, peering out, but seeing nothing in the darkness.
“Three friends who are just going home,” answered a voice.
“And who are the other two, Honora Pembroke?” demanded the priest.
“Annette and Lawrence. We have been arranging flowers for Our Lady.”
“That’s well. Good-night!”
He pulled the sash down with a bang; but Honora, smiling in the dark, still held her companions beneath the window. It opened again with another bang.
“Children!” he called out.
“Yes, father!”
“God bless you! Good-night!”