The carriage turned warily, and then set off at a great pace.

The cathedral loomed up suddenly, all aglow with light within.  Out into the night came the dirge of the organ for the dying year.

The Bishop kept his eyes fixed on the pane.  The houses were left behind.  They were in the country.

“Who is that?” said Rachel, suddenly, as a long shadow ran beside them along the white hedgerow.

“It is only Dick.  There is a rise in the ground here, and he is running to ease the horses.”

There was a long silence.

“I believe he did it on purpose,” said Rachel, at last.  “I forsook him in his great need, and now he has forsaken me.”

“He would never forsake you, Rachel.”

“Not knowingly,” she said.  “I did it knowing.  That is the difference between him and me.”

She did not speak again.

For a lifetime, as it seemed to the Bishop, the carriage swayed from side to side of the white road.  At last, when he had given up all hope, it turned into a field and jolted heavily over the frozen ruts.  Then it came to a stand-still.

Rachel was out of the carriage before Dick could get off the box.

She looked at him without speaking, and he led the way swiftly through the silent wood under the moon.  The Bishop followed.

The keeper’s cottage had a dim yellow glimmer in it.  Man’s little light looked like a kind of darkness in the great white, all-pervading splendor of the night.  The cottage door was open.  Dr. Brown was looking out.

Rachel went up to him.

“Where is he?” she said.

He tried to speak; he tried to hold her gently back while he explained something.  But he saw she was past explanation, blind and deaf except for one voice, one face.

“Where is he?” she repeated, shaking her head impatiently.

“Here,” said the doctor, and he led her through the kitchen.  A man and woman rose up from the fireside as she came in.  He opened the door into the little parlor.

On the floor on a mattress lay a tall figure.  The head, supported on a pillow, was turned towards the door, the wide eyes were fixed on the candle on the table.  The lips moved continually.  The hands were picking at the blankets.

For the first moment Rachel did not know him.  How could this be Hugh?  How could these blank, unrecognizing eyes be Hugh’s eyes, which had never until now met hers without love?

But it was he.  Yes, it was he.  She traced the likeness as we do in a man’s son to the man himself.

She fell on her knees beside him and took the wandering hands and kissed them.

He looked at her, through her, with those bright, unseeing eyes, and the burning hands escaped from hers back to their weary work.

Dick, whose eyes had followed Rachel, turned away biting his lip, and sat down in a corner of the kitchen.  The keeper and his wife had slipped away into the little scullery.