He stood a moment alone in the sacristy. Then he went out through the church. It was empty and all but dark. The sacristan, with a long rod, was putting out the lights one by one. He turned, with arm uplifted, to look after the halting figure that passed down the aisle and out at the west porch. CHAPTER XIII. Abbey Gardens, the street in front, was dark and all but deserted. Only a drunken woman went reeling along. But the dull buzz in the distance, and the white sheet in the sky, told that, somewhere near, the wild heart of the night beat high. Hugh Ritson looked up at the heavy mass of the convent building as he crossed the street. The lights were already out, and all was dark within. He went on, but presently stopped by a sudden impulse, and looked again. It was then he was aware that something moved in the deep portico. The lamp on the pavement sent a shaft of light on to the door, and there, under the gas-light, with the face turned from him, was the figure of a woman. She seemed to cast cautious and stealthy glances around, and to lift a trembling hand to the bell that hung above her. The hand fell to her side, but no ring followed. Once again the hand was lifted, and once again it fell back. Then the woman crept totteringly down the steps and turned to go. Hugh Ritson recrossed the street. Amid all the turmoil of his soul, the incident had arrested him. The woman was coming toward him. He put himself in her path. The light fell full upon her, and he saw her face. It was Mercy Fisher. With a low cry, the girl sunk back against the railings of the convent, and covered her face with her hands. "Is it you, Mercy?" said Hugh. She made no answer. Then she tried to steal away, but he held her with gentle force. "Why did you leave Hendon?" he asked. "You did not want me," said the girl, in a tone of unutterable pain. And still her face was buried in her hands. He did not reply. He let her grief spend itself. Just then a drunken woman reeled back along the pavement and passed them close, peering into their midst, and going by with a jarring laugh. "What's he a-doing to ye, my dear, eh?" she said, jeeringly. "Sarve ye right!" she added, and laughed again. She was a draggled, battered outcast--a human ruin, such as night, the pander, flings away. Mercy lifted her head. A dull, weary look was in her eyes. "You know how I waited and waited," she said, "and you were so long in coming, so very long." She turned her eyes aside. "You did not want me; in your heart you did not want me," she said. The wave of bitter memory drowned her voice. Not unmoved, he stood and looked at her, and saw the child-face wet with tears, and the night breeze of the city drift in her yellow hair. "Where have you been since?" he said.