Other monuments there were that somewhat encroached on the space of the little structure, but none of the family had been interred in the vault beneath for more than a century.
The chapel was provided with a large pew for the family and guests, and seats for the household. A venerable divine, the Reverend Mr. Massey, officiated as chaplain, and had done so for sixty years.
After advancing a few steps, Chetwynd paused, and looked round. Every object was coloured by the painted glass, now illuminated by the rays of the declining sun.
After admiring this glowing picture for a few moments, he joined Emmeline, who was standing near the precincts of the altar.
His countenance had still the melancholy look it had borne throughout the day; but he gazed earnestly at Emmeline, as he said, in a low, supplicating voice:
“I have not yet proved myself worthy of your love; but, if I dared, I would entreat you to plight your faith to me here.”
For some minutes, she made no reply; but seemed occupied with serious reflection. She then said:
“I think I may trust you, Chetwynd.”
“You may,” he replied, in accents that bespoke his sincerity.
She hesitated no more, but freely gave him her hand.