He opened the windows, and she stood up.  Jennings quietly left the room.  The slow, heavy knell struck ponderously on the damp air, and she stood and shivered.

A moment or two later she turned, because it seemed as if she must.

Betty, in her riding habit, was standing motionless against the door, her wonderful eyes still as death, gazing at her, gazing in an awful, simple silence.

Oh, what was the use of being afraid to speak at such a time as this?  In one moment Rosy was kneeling at her feet, clinging about her knees, kissing her hands, the very cloth of her habit, and sobbing aloud.

“Oh, my darling—­my love—­my own Betty!  I don’t know—­and I won’t ask—­but speak to me—­speak just a word—­my dearest dear!”

Betty raised her up and drew her within the room, closing the door behind them.

“Kind little Rosy,” she said.  “I came to speak—­because we two love each other.  You need not ask, I will tell you.  That bell is tolling for the man who taught me—­to know.  He never spoke to me of love.  I have not one word or look to remember.  And now——­ Oh, listen—­listen!  I have been listening since the morning of yesterday.”  It was an awful thing—­her white face, with all the flame of life swept out of it.

“Don’t listen—­darling—­darling!” Rosy cried out in anguish.  “Shut your ears—­shut your ears!” And she tried to throw her arms around the high black head, and stifle all sound with her embrace.

“I don’t want to shut them,” was the answer.  “All the unkindness and misery are over for him, I ought to thank God—­but I don’t.  I shall hear—­O Rosy, listen!—­I shall hear that to the end of my days.”

Rosy held her tight, and rocked and sobbed.

“My Betty,” she kept saying.  “My Betty,” and she could say no more.  What more was there to say?  At last Betty withdrew herself from her arms, and then Rosalie noticed for the first time that she wore the habit.

“Dearest,” she whispered, “what are you going to do?”

“I was going to ride, and I am going to do it still.  I must do something.  I shall ride a long, long way—­and ride hard.  You won’t try to keep me, Rosy.  You will understand.”

“Yes,” biting her lip, and looking at her with large, awed eyes, as she patted her arm with a hand that trembled.  “I would not hold you back, Betty, from anything in the world you chose to do.”

And with another long, clinging clasp of her, she let her go.

Mason was standing by Childe Harold when she went down the broad steps.  He also wore a look of repressed emotion, and stood with bared head bent, his eyes fixed on the gravel of the drive, listening to the heavy strokes of the bell in the church tower, rather as if he were taking part in some solemn ceremony.

He mounted her silently, and after he had given her the bridle, looked up, and spoke in a somewhat husky voice: