“At last thou art come! Thou art come!” she said indistinctly, not wanting him to hear the words, yet unable to keep from saying them. “And didst thou sit up for me, child, and thou so weary? I went but to give my mother good-night, for thou knowest ’tis long since I saw her last. She sent thee her blessing and sweet rest; and my wish is fellow to hers. Come now, child.” Gerault lifted her up in his arms, and, carrying her to the bed, laid her down in it, mantle and all. In the carrying, Lenore had leaned her head upon his shoulder, and her two tired arms folded themselves around his neck. How it was that Gerault felt no thrill at this touch; that it was almost a relief to him when the hold loosened; and how, though he slept at her side that night, his dreams, freer replica of his day-thoughts, were filled with vague trouble, he himself could scarce have told; and yet it was so. [Illustration: _Only one among them seemed not of their mood.—Page 31_ ] Next morning, however, Gerault watched her waken, looking as rosy and fresh as a child, and smiling a child’s delighted welcome at the new day. Unquestionably she was a pleasure to him at such times. Before her marriage he had liked, in thinking of her, to accentuate her fairy-like ways, because through them he had brought himself to marry her. And now his treatment of her resembled most, perhaps, the treatment of something very fine and fair, something very rare and delicate and generally to be prized, but not really belonging to him, not essentially valued by him, or near at all to his human heart. When they were ready for the day, the two of them, Lenore and Gerault, did not linger together in their room, but descended immediately to the chapel, where morning prayers were just beginning. Every eye was turned upon them as they entered the holy room; and it was as sunshine greeting sunshine when Lenore faced the open window, through which poured the golden light of July. Madame’s heart swelled and beat fast, and that of Alixe all but stopped, as each beheld the morning’s bride; and they perceived, with a kind of dull surprise, that Gerault’s face was as dark-browed, as reserved, as melancholy as ever. It seemed impossible that he should not be moved to new life by the presence and possession of so fair a thing as this Lenore. Yet when the devotions were at an end, and the Castle household rose and moved out to where the tables were spread for the breaking of the fast, no one noted how the young girl’s blue eyes glanced once or twice a little wistfully, a little forlornly, up into the unmoved face of her husband, and that she got therefrom no answering smile.