"It is dead," she said in a loud voice, getting up. Her gown was burned through where she had knelt down.

In the still air a few flakes of snow were falling in a great compassion.

"Quite dead," said Hester. "Regie and the book."

And she set off running blindly across the darkening fields.

*

It was close on eleven o'clock. The Bishop was sitting alone in his study writing. The night was very still. The pen travelled, travelled. The fire had burned down to a red glow. Presently he got up, walked to the window, and drew aside the curtain.

"The first snow," he said, half aloud.

It was coming down gently, through the darkness. He could just see the white rim on the stone sill outside.

"I can do no more to-night," he said, and he bent to lock his despatch-box with the key on his watch-chain.

The door suddenly opened. He turned to see a little figure rush towards him, and fall at his feet, holding him convulsively by the knees.

"Hester!" he said, in amazement. "Hester!"

She was bareheaded. The snow was upon her hair and shoulders. She brought in the smell of fire with her.

He tried to raise her, but she held him tightly with her bleeding hands, looking up at him with a convulsed face. His own hands were red, as he vainly tried to loosen hers.

"They have killed my book," she said. "They have killed my book. They burned it alive when I was away. And my head went. I don't know what I did, but I think I killed Regie. I know I meant to."

Chapter XLII

*

"Is it well with the child?"

"I am not really anxious," said Mr. Gresley, looking out across the Vicarage laurels to the white fields and hedges. All was blurred and vague and very still. The only thing that had a distinct outline was the garden railing, with a solitary rook on it.

"I am not really anxious," he said again, sitting down at the breakfast-table. But his face contradicted him. It was blue and pinched, for he had just returned from reading the morning service to himself in an ice-cold church, but there was a pucker in the brow that was not the result of cold. The Vicarage porch had fallen down in the night, but he was evidently not thinking of that. He drank a little coffee, and then got up and walked to the window again.

"She is with the Pratts," he said, with decision. "I am glad I sent a note over early, if it will relieve your mind, but I am convinced she is with the Pratts."

Mrs. Gresley murmured something. She looked scared. She made an attempt to eat something, but it was a mere pretence.

The swing door near the back staircase creaked. In the Vicarage you could hear everything.

Mr. and Mrs. Gresley looked eagerly at the door. The parlor-maid came in with a note between her finger and thumb.