“Don’t you miss the country sometimes in Shoreditch?” he asked.

She shook her head and looked at him with puzzled eyes.

“Why should I miss anything in Shoreditch?”

Mark was abashed and silent for the rest of the drive, because he fancied that Esther might have supposed that he was referring to the past, rather than give which impression he would have cut out his tongue.  When they reached the Rectory, Mark was moved almost to tears by the greetings.

“Dear little sister,” Miriam murmured.  “How happy we are to have you with us again.”

“Dear child,” said Mrs. Ogilvie.  “And really she does look like a nun.”

“My dearest girl, we have missed you every moment of these four years,” said the Rector, bending to kiss her.  “How cold your cheek is.”

“It was quite chilly driving,” said Mark quickly, for there had come upon him a sudden dismay lest they should think she was a ghost.  He was relieved when Miriam announced tea half an hour earlier than usual in honour of Esther’s arrival; it seemed to prove that to her family she was still alive.

“After tea I’m going to Wych Maries to pick St. John’s wort for the church.  Would you like to walk as far?” Mark suggested, and then stood speechless, horrified at his want of tact.  He had the presence of mind not to excuse himself, and he was grateful to Esther when she replied in a calm voice that she should like a walk after tea.

When the opportunity presented itself, Mark apologized for his suggestion.

“By why apologize?” she asked.  “I assure you I’m not at all tired and I really should like to walk to Wych Maries.”

He was amazed at her self-possession, and they walked along with unhastening conventual steps to where the St. John’s wort grew amid a tangle of ground ivy in the open spaces of a cypress grove, appearing most vividly and richly golden like sunlight breaking from black clouds in the western sky.

“Gather some sprays quickly, Sister Esther Magdalene,” Mark advised.  “And you will be safe against the demons of this night when evil has such power.”

“Are we ever safe against the demons of the night?” she asked solemnly.  “And has not evil great power always?”

“Always,” he assented in a voice that trembled to a sigh, like the uncertain wind that comes hesitating at dusk in the woods.  “Always,” he repeated.

As he spoke Mark fell upon his knees among the holy flowers, for there had come upon him temptation; and the sombre trees standing round watched him like fiends with folded wings.

“Go to the chapel,” he cried in an agony.

“Mark, what is the matter?”

“Go to the chapel.  For God’s sake, Esther, don’t wait.”

In another moment he felt that he should tear the white veil from her forehead and set loose her auburn hair.

“Mark, are you ill?”

“Oh, do what I ask,” he begged.  “Once I prayed for you here.  Pray for me now.”