n let us make the
best of to-day, for who knows what to-morrow may bring forth?"

Who indeed? Certainly not either of these young people.

They talked awhile seated by the river; then began to walk through
certain ancient grazing grounds where the monks used to run their
cattle. Their conversation, fluent enough at first, grew somewhat
constrained and artificial, since both of them were thinking of matters
different from those that they were trying to dress out in words;
intimate, pressing, burning matters that seemed to devour their
intelligences of everyday with a kind of eating fire. They grew almost
silent, talking only at random and listening to the beating of their
own hearts rather than to the words that fell from each other's lips.

The sky clouded over, and some heavy drops of rain began to fall.

"I suppose that we must go in," said Isobel, "we shall be soaked
presently," and she glanced at her light summer attire.

"Where?" exclaimed Godfrey. "The Abbey? No, my father will be back by
now; it must be the Hall."

"Very well, but I dare say _my_ father is there by now, for I
understand that he is coming down this afternoon to arrange about the
shooting."

"Great heavens!" groaned Godfrey, "and I wanted to--tell you a story
which I thought perhaps might interest you, and I don't know when I
shall get another chance--now."

"Then why did you not tell your story before?" she inquired with some
irritation.

"Oh! because I have only just thought of it," he replied rather wildly.

At this moment they were passing the church, and the rain began to fall
in earnest. By some mutual impulse they entered through the chancel
door which was always unlocked, and by some mutual folly, left it open.

Advancing instinctively to the tombs of the unknown Plantagenet lady
and her knight which were so intimately connected with the little
events of their little lives, they listened for a while to the rush of
the rain upon the leaden roof, saying nothing, till the silence grew
irksome indeed. Each waited for the other to break it, but with a
woman's infinite patience Isobel waited the longer. There she stood,
staring at the brass of the Plantagenet lady, still as the bones of
that lady which lay beneath.

"My story," said Godfrey at last with a gasp, and stopped.

"Yes," said Isobel. "What is it?"

"Oh!" he exclaimed in an agony, "a very short one. I love you, that's
all."

A little quiver ran through her, causing he