“It is bitter hard,” said the Dame.  “I wish to my heart I could take you in, but you see there’s the master!  I’ll tell you what:  there’s my cousin, Patty Woodman; she might take you in for a night or two.  But you’d never find your way to her cot; it lies out beyond the spinneys.  I must show you the way.  Look you here.  Nobody can’t touch you in a church, they hain’t got no power there, and if you would slip into that there empty place as opens with the little door, as the ringers goes in by, afore morning prayers is over I’ll make an excuse to come to evening prayer alone, or only with little Davy, as is lying asleep there.  If Patty is there I’ll speak, and you can go home with her.  If not, I must e’en walk with you out to the spinney.  Hern is a poor place, but her’s a good sort of body, and won’t let you come to no harm; and her goes into Brentford with berries and strawberries to meet the coaches, so may be she’ll know the day.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, dear Mrs. Wheatfield!  If I can only get safe home!”

“Come, don’t be in haste.  You’ll take a bit of bread and cheese, and just a draught of ale to hearten you up a bit.”

Aurelia was too sick at heart for food, and feared to delay, lest she should meet the congregation, but Mrs. Wheatfield forced on her a little basket with some provisions, and she gladly accepted another draught of milk.

No one came out by the little door she was told; all she had to do would be to keep out of sight when the ringers came in before the afternoon service.  She knew the way, and was soon close to Mary Sedhurst’s grave.  “Ah! why was he not constant to her,” she thought; “and oh! why has he deserted me in my need?”

The little door easily yielded, and she found herself—­after passing the staircase-turret that led by a gallery to the belfry in the centre of the church—­in an exceedingly dilapidated transept; once, no doubt, it had been beautiful, before the coloured glass of the floriated window had been knocked out and its place supplied with bricks.  The broken effigy of a crusading Sedhurst, devoid of arms, feet, and nose was stowed away in the eastern sepulchre, in company with funeral apparatus, torn books, and moth-eaten cushions.  But this would not have shocked her even in calmer moments.  She only cared to find a corner where she was entirely sheltered, between a green stained pier and the high wall and curtain of a gigantic pew, where no doubt sweet Mary Sedhurst had once worshipped.  The lusty voices of the village choir in some exalted gallery beyond her view were shouting out a familiar tune, and with some of Betty’s mild superstition about “the singing psalms,” she heard—­

“Since I have placed my trust in God
A refuge always nigh,
Why should I, like tim’rous bird
To distant mountains fly?

“Behold the wicked bend their bow,
And ready fix their dart,
Lurking in ambush to destroy
The man of upright heart.