By this time Meg was so infirm of her body that she could only walk with difficulty, and it was sore trouble for her to do about the house, much more to go hoeing and weeding in the fields as she was wont to do. When the sun shone brightly on the Red Headland she would sit in the doorway of the cottage sadly regarding the green-budding hawthorns and the early violets that grew under the bank, and at whiles her lips moved as though she prayed. Much she thought in those days of her former wild words and deeds, and many bitter tears she shed therefore. ‘My sins are too black for even Christ to forgive,’ she would say. ‘’Twould much ease her heart,’ quoth Gilbert to Master Parson, ‘if she could but think she was forgiven.’ Towards Easter she grew more feeble, weakening as the year strengthened, and when the earth began to put on its robe of green she began to strip off, as it were, her robe of mortality. About a week before Easter Day her husband came in from his work in the fields to see how she fared. She was sitting deep in thought at the doorway. ‘I have been thinking, husband,’ quoth she, ‘that I would above all things partake of the Blessed Sacrament in the Town Church this Easter. But I am unworthy and that I know. The Lord hath taken the strength out of my joints. Pray for me, dear husband.’ ‘Why, Meg,’ quoth he. ‘Hob of the Cross would gladly lend me a hand and we two could right easily carry thee to Church, an there were need, the Holy Day.’ ‘Thou art indeed a kind man and a good to me,’ said his wife. ‘If the Lord granted me to partake once more of His precious Body and Blood, I should die happy, for I should know that He had forgiven my sin and done away mine iniquity.’ On Easter day Gilbert looked from the little window. The air was chill as death, and a soft darkness brooded dumbly over a waste of snow. The branches of the trees bowed under their burden; the ways were choked. Tears came into his eyes. ‘It lies thick with snow,’ he said sadly. Meg bowed her head. ‘The Lord is not willing. How can He forgive me?’ she said simply. But anon and in the good time he had promised came Hob of the Cross, his round face like a glowing coal, his breath going up like a white cloud from his mouth. ‘What, Meg,’ quoth he, stamping the snow from his shoes before the hearth fire and clapping his hands noisily together. ‘Art ready for Church? We shall fetch thee there right readily, I warrant thee.’ A faint colour tinged her faded cheeks and a light flickered in her eyes. Gilbert stood doubtfully by. ‘Would God it were possible,’ she said. ‘It lies three feet deep in places, I guess, good Hob?’ said Gilbert. ‘Yea, neighbour, but if thy wife here be ready, it might be done.’ ‘’Twould do her mortal harm, I’m feared,’ said Gilbert. ‘When I have partaken of the Blessed Sacrament this Easter Day,’ quoth Meg, ‘happy will I die straightway.’