Roger's great-coat, hanging in the hall, seemed to afford an index that he had not strayed beyond the garden. The snow, coming down so thick and fast but a minute or two ago, had temporarily ceased, following its own capricious fashion, and the moon was bright again. Calling aloud to Roger as I stood on the door-step, and getting no answer, I went out to look for him. On the side of the garden facing the church, was a little entrance-gate, amid the clusters of laurels and other shrubs. Hearing footsteps approach this, and knowing all were in from church, for the servants got back before we did, I went down the narrow cross-path leading to it, and looked out. It was not Roger, but a woman. A lady, rather, by what the moonbeams displayed of her dress, which looked very smart. As she seemed to be making for the gate, I stepped aside into the shrubs, and peered out over the moor for Roger. The lady gave a sharp ring at the bell, and old Jacob came from the side-door of the house to answer it. "Is this Prior's Glebe?" she asked--and her voice gave an odd thrill to my pulses, for I thought I recognized it. "Yes, ma'am," said Jacob. "Lady Beveer's, I think." "That's near enough," returned Jacob, familiar with the eccentricities of pronunciation accorded to the name. "What did you please to want?" "I want Miss Field." "Miss Field!" echoed the old man. "Harriet Field. She lives here, don't she? I'd like to see her." "Oh--Harriet! I'll send her out," said he, turning away. The more I heard of the voice, the greater grew my dismay. Surely it was that of Roger's wife! Was it really she that Scott had seen at the station? Had she come after Roger? Did she know he was here? I stood back amid the sheltering laurels, hardly daring to breathe. Waiting there, she began a little dance, or shuffle of the feet, perhaps to warm herself, and broke into a verse of a gay song. "As I live, she's not sober!" was the fear that flashed across me. Harriet, her things still on, just as she came in from church, came swiftly to the gate. "Well, Harriet, how are you?" "Why, Lizzie!--it's never you!" exclaimed Harriet, after an amazed stare at the visitor. "Yes, it's me. I thought I'd come over and see you. That old man was polite though, to leave me standing here." "But where have you come from? And why are you so late?" "Oh, I'm staying at Brighton; came down on the spree yesterday. I'm late because I lost my way on this precious moor--or whatever it calls itself--and got a mile, or so, too far. When the snow came on--and ain't it getting deep!--I turned into a house to shelter a bit, and here I am. A man that was coming out of church yonder directed me to the place here." She must have been at The Sheaf o' Corn. What if she had chanced to ask the route of _me_! "You got my letter, then, telling you I had left my old place at Worthing, and taken service here," said Harriet.