The church looked at its best and weirdest on that night, for the shadows of the yew trees fell through the windows upon the floor of the nave and touched the pillars with tattered shade. We sat down together without speaking, and watched the solemn beauty of the old church, with some of that awe which inspired its early builders. We walked to the chancel and looked at the sleeping warriors. Then we rested some time on the stone seat in the porch, looking out over the stretch of quiet moonlit meadows, feeling in every fibre of our being the peace of the night and of our happy love; and came away at last with a sense that even scrubbing and blackleading were but small troubles at their worst. Mrs. Dorman had come back from the village, and I at once invited her to a _tête-à-tête_. "Now, Mrs. Dorman," I said, when I had got her into my painting room, "what's all this about your not staying with us?" "I should be glad to get away, sir, before the end of the month," she answered, with her usual placid dignity. "Have you any fault to find, Mrs. Dorman?" "None at all, sir; you and your lady have always been most kind, I'm sure----" "Well, what is it? Are your wages not high enough?" "No, sir, I gets quite enough." "Then why not stay?" "I'd rather not"--with some hesitation--"my niece is ill." "But your niece has been ill ever since we came." No answer. There was a long and awkward silence. I broke it. "Can't you stay for another month?" I asked. "No, sir. I'm bound to go by Thursday." And this was Monday! "Well, I must say, I think you might have let us know before. There's no time now to get any one else, and your mistress is not fit to do heavy housework. Can't you stay till next week?" "I might be able to come back next week." I was now convinced that all she wanted was a brief holiday, which we should have been willing enough to let her have, as soon as we could get a substitute. "But why must you go this week?" I persisted. "Come, out with it." Mrs. Dorman drew the little shawl, which she always wore, tightly across her bosom, as though she were cold. Then she said, with a sort of effort-- "They say, sir, as this was a big house in Catholic times, and there was a many deeds done here." The nature of the "deeds" might be vaguely inferred from the inflection of Mrs. Dorman's voice--which was enough to make one's blood run cold. I was glad that Laura was not in the room. She was always nervous, as highly-strung natures are, and I felt that these tales about our house, told by this old peasant woman, with her impressive manner and contagious credulity, might have made our home less dear to my wife. "Tell me all about it, Mrs. Dorman," I said; "you needn't mind about telling me. I'm not like the young people who make fun of such things." Which was partly true. "Well, sir"--she sank her voice--"you may have seen in the church, beside the altar, two shapes." "You mean the effigies of the knights in armour," I said cheerfully.