We all reached the number 847 almost at the same second, when we stopped the coach, and sure enough, there by the roadside, on a small rocky hillock surrounded by a bleak moor, was the shrine. Even from the road we could see the fragment of a cross projecting above the one piece of wall left standing. One would hardly have taken it to be a shrine unless the fact had been suggested, but with the thought in mind, the fragmentary cross was convincing evidence. Had its sacred quality been suspected during the time of Cromwell, not one stone would have been left upon another, but no one knew that it was the Virgin's shrine, therefore it was not disturbed, but stood there, black on a field of luminous white. We all saw it at the same moment. I was content to view it from the coach, but George went to examine it, and returned, saying:-- "It is a shrine. Part of the cross still remains surmounting a fragment of a wall." He climbed into the coach and was about to give the word to start again, when Betty spoke up, hesitatingly, pleadingly but emphatically:-- "Please wait a moment. I want to see it." I followed Betty when she got out of the coach, and, as we approached the shrine, she exclaimed: "Doctor Lilly was right! There is no snow on the shrine. The Virgin protects it. There must be a relic beneath the stones!" We climbed a little hillock and after standing before the shrine for a moment, Betty said, "Please return to the coach and leave me alone." "Why, Betty?" I asked. "You may speak plainly to me. I think I know your motive." "I want to offer a little prayer to the Virgin here at her broken shrine--a prayer for your cousin and for you--and for me." I knelt with her, and after Betty had finished her simple invocation, we rose, and I, who at another time would have laughed at the prayer, felt the thrill of her whispered words lingering in my heart. I seemed to know that we should rescue Frances, and I also knew that my love for Bettina would bring me nothing but joy, softened and sanctified by sadness, and to her nothing of evil save the pain of a gentle longing. Betty felt as I did, for when she rose she said, "Now we shall find Mistress Jennings, and, Baron Ned, I shall fear you no more." "Have you feared me?" I asked, touched to the quick by her artless candor. "Yes," she answered, sighing. "Though I have feared myself more. You are so far above me in every way that it is no wonder I am bewildered when you say--say--that you--. You know what I mean." "Yes, Betty," I answered quickly, feeling that she had more to say. "I was bewildered in my parlor at the Old Swan to-day," she said, hanging her head. "Your opinion of me must have fallen." "No, no, I understood, Betty, I understood, and I dare not tell you how much my opinion has risen because I would say more than would be good for you or for me," I answered reassuringly.