More than once he had thought to hear again that indefinable stir and whisper the which had thrilled him on that first morning, and, starting up, he would peer into the vague shadows.  Twice he had thought to see a draped figure bending above that long, white stone, a veiled figure slender and graceful, that upon his approach, soft though it was, flitted swiftly into the dark recesses of the choir.  Once he had followed, and stood amazed to see it vanish through the carven panelling, though door could he find none.  Therefore was he sore perplexed and oft would touch the dewy flowers as half expecting they should vanish also.  Now upon a certain dawn he had hid himself within the shadows and waited with bated breath and heart strangely a-throb.  And with the day-spring she came again, tall and gracious in her clinging draperies and long green veil.  Then, even as she bent to lay the flowers upon the grave came Beltane, soft of foot, and spake ere she was ’ware of him.

“Lady—!” now though his voice was very low and gentle she started, the flowers fell from her loosened clasp, and, after a moment, she turned and fronted him, proud head up-flung beneath her veil.  So stood they within that place of silence, while high above, the great window grew luminous with coming day.

“Lady,” said he again, “for thy sweet flowers, for thy sweeter thought for one that is—­gone, fain would I thank thee, for she who lieth here I found, and loved, and have lost again a while.  She did love all fair things, so loved she the flowers, methinks; yet I, who have grieved for my noble mother, ne’er thought to bring her flowers—­this did need a woman’s gentle soul.  So, for thy flowers, I do most truly thank thee.”

Very still she stood, nor spake nor moved, save for the sweet hurry of her breathing; and beholding her thus, of a sudden Beltane’s heart leapt and he fell a-trembling though wherefore he knew not, only yearned he mightily to look beneath her veil.  And now it seemed to him that, in the stillness, she must needs hear the passionate throbbing of his heart; twice would he have spoken yet could not; at last: 

“Beseech thee,” he whispered, “O beseech thee unveil, that I may behold the face of one so tender to her that was my dear-loved mother—­O beseech thee!”

As he spake, he drew a swift pace nearer, hand outstretched in supplication, but, because this hand shook and quivered so, he clenched it, whereat the unknown shrank back and back and, turning swift and sudden, was gone.

A while stood my Beltane, his head a-droop, and fell to wonderment because of the so painful throbbing of his heart.  Then knelt he above his mother’s grave with hands tight-clasped.

“Dear mother in heaven,” he sighed, “being an angel, thou dost know all my heart, its hopes and fears—­thou hast seen me tremble—­thou dost know wherefore this my heart doth yearn so bitterly.  O sweet mother with God, plead thou on my behalf that I may be worthy her love—­meet to her embracements—­fit for so great happiness.  Angel of God, thou dost know how great is my desire—­how empty life without her—­O mother—­aid me!”