The abbess sat embroidering at one end of the hall, while Iola and Chartley stood together in the oriel window at the other; and Sir William Arden, with the right knee thrown across the left, and his head bent, pored over the miniatures in a richly illuminated manuscript of Monstrelet, lifting his eyes from time to time, with a thoughtful look, towards Chartley and Iola, and thinking, if the truth must be told, that Constance was somewhat long absent. The glow of the evening sun, poured full through the window at which the lovers were standing, concentrated upon them by the stone work; and, both so beautiful and full of grace, they looked in that haze of golden beams like the old pictures of saints in glory. Just at that moment Constance entered the hall with a light step, and a more cheerful look than usual. She too had been reading; and she had found what she sought, truth--truth, which came home to her own heart, and dispelled every doubt and shadow within it. She looked up at the window, as she crossed the hall, and said, in a low sweet voice: "What a fair evening! The sunset must look beautiful from the ramparts." "So it must!" exclaimed Iola. "Let us go out and enjoy it. Will you come, dear lady mother?" she added, raising her voice to reach the ear of the abbess. "No, dear child, no," replied the elder lady, "I must finish this cat's head. I never saw such a troublesome puss in my life;" and she laughed merrily. "I cannot get her whiskers in, all I can do. When I make them black, they look like a spot of ink, and when I make them white, they look like a drop of cream. But go, my children, go. The evening is beautiful; and sunsets and sunrises, and such sort of things, do young people good. Forget not to tell your beads, Iola, as he goes down; for no one can ever tell what his rising may look upon." Without any other covering of the head than that which they wore in the house, the two girls went forth with Chartley, Sir William starting up and following. It need not be asked how the party divided itself. Ah, it is a pleasant number, four. It does not admit of much variety; but, on most occasions, it is perfect in itself. Happy Iola, how gaily she walked on by Chartley's side, round those same walls which she had trod some evenings before, with a pale cheek and anxious eye, and a heart well nigh despairing. Now all the scene was bright and beautiful, on the one side spreading out the purple glow of evening, on the other, the pale primrose of the west growing fainter at the approach of night, and the golden hills all round crowning themselves with the beams of the departing sun. As if to leave them free room to say all that might be sweet, yet dangerous, to say, Sir William Arden and Constance lingered a good way behind, paused often, once or twice sat down, till Iola and Chartley, circling all round the walls, came back to them again.