The day seemed to drag more heavily than any which had preceded it. Surely there had never been such long hours and so many hours in a day before! The sunshine was out of keeping with her mood, and it was almost a relief to her when the afternoon became overcast and the haze on the distant hills spoke of rain. The sound of rain was on the terrace presently, the stone flags grew dark with the wet, and the woods became sombre and deeply mysterious. A light still lingered in the west, low down and angry looking, but the night fell early over the Abbey. Candles had been burning in Barbara's room for a long time when a faint cadence of notes struck upon her ear. She knew it well, and the sound gladdened her so that she laughed as she threw open the window. Her laughter was like a musical echo of the notes. "Martin!" she said, leaning from the casement and looking down on the terrace; "Martin!" There was no answer. She looked to right and left, but only the shadows of the night lay still and unmoving. Had the sound been fancy? She closed the casement and shivered a little as though she had heard a ghost; then there came a knock at her door. She opened it quickly and stood back. "It is you, then?" "Did you not hear my fiddle smile? No, it was not a laugh to-night; I was afraid someone else might hear it. Will you come to the tower? I like to sit in my own room when I come back from making the folks laugh and dance and helping them to be happy." "Well, Martin, have you nothing to tell me?" Now that he had come back, advice was not what she asked for, but news. "We always have much to talk of--always--you and I." "But to-night, Martin, especially to-night. Ah! you have forgotten." "Very likely," he answered. "I do forget a great many things. But come to my room in the tower; I may remember when I get there." "No, Martin, not to-night," she said. "I may remember," he repeated; "and, besides, why should you be less kind to me? I always look forward to my own room and you." There was a tone of sadness in his voice, and she was angry with herself for occasioning it. Because she was sad, was that a reason why she should make this poor fellow miserable? Would he not do anything to serve her which fell within the power of the poor wits God had given him? "I will come," she said. "You must wrap a thick cloak about you," said Martin. "It is raining heavily." She left him for a moment and quickly returned, closely wrapped up. "Tread lightly," said Martin. "I always like to think that these evenings when you come to my tower are secret meetings, that the world must not know of them. I pretend sometimes that we are followed, and must go warily." "Foolish Martin!" They reached the terrace by a small door, and went quickly through the ruins to the tower. The door was still locked. Martin had evidently only just returned to the Abbey, and had not yet entered his tower. "Give me your hand up the stairs," he said.