They talked awhile seated by the river; then began to walk through certain ancient grazing grounds where the monks used to run their cattle. Their conversation, fluent enough at first, grew somewhat constrained and artificial, since both of them were thinking of matters different from those that they were trying to dress out in words; intimate, pressing, burning matters that seemed to devour their intelligences of everyday with a kind of eating fire. They grew almost silent, talking only at random and listening to the beating of their own hearts rather than to the words that fell from each other’s lips. The sky clouded over, and some heavy drops of rain began to fall. “I suppose that we must go in,” said Isobel, “we shall be soaked presently,” and she glanced at her light summer attire. “Where?” exclaimed Godfrey. “The Abbey? No, my father will be back by now; it must be the Hall.” “Very well, but I dare say _my_ father is there by now, for I understand that he is coming down this afternoon to arrange about the shooting.” “Great heavens!” groaned Godfrey, “and I wanted to—tell you a story which I thought perhaps might interest you, and I don’t know when I shall get another chance—now.” “Then why did you not tell your story before?” she inquired with some irritation. “Oh! because I have only just thought of it,” he replied rather wildly. At this moment they were passing the church, and the rain began to fall in earnest. By some mutual impulse they entered through the chancel door which was always unlocked, and by some mutual folly, left it open. Advancing instinctively to the tombs of the unknown Plantagenet lady and her knight which were so intimately connected with the little events of their little lives, they listened for a while to the rush of the rain upon the leaden roof, saying nothing, till the silence grew irksome indeed. Each waited for the other to break it, but with a woman’s infinite patience Isobel waited the longer. There she stood, staring at the brass of the Plantagenet lady, still as the bones of that lady which lay beneath. “My story,” said Godfrey at last with a gasp, and stopped. “Yes,” said Isobel. “What is it?” “Oh!” he exclaimed in an agony, “a very short one. I love you, that’s all.” A little quiver ran through her, causing her dress to shake and the gold Mexican gods on her necklace to tinkle against each other. Then she grew still as a stone, and raising those large and steady eyes of hers, looked him up and down, finally fixing them upon his own. “Is that true?” she asked. “True! It is as true as life and death, or as Heaven and Hell.” “I don’t know anything about Heaven and Hell; they are hypothetical, are they not? Life and death are enough for me,” and she stopped. “Then by life and death, for life and death, and for ever, I love you, Isobel.” “Thank you,” she said, and stopped once more. “You don’t help one much. Have you nothing to say?”