Her gown was burned
through where she had knelt down.
In the still air a few flakes of snow were falling in a great
compassion.
"Quite dead," said Hester. "Regie and the book."
And she set off running blindly across the darkening fields.
* * * * *
It was close on eleven o'clock. The Bishop was sitting alone in his
study writing. The night was very still. The pen travelled, travelled.
The fire had burned down to a red glow. Presently he got up, walked to
the window, and drew aside the curtain.
"The first snow," he said, half aloud.
It was coming down gently, through the darkness. He could just see the
white rim on the stone sill outside.
"I can do no more to-night," he said, and he bent to lock his
despatch-box with the key on his watch-chain.
The door suddenly opened. He turned to see a little figure rush towards
him, and fall at his feet, holding him convulsively by the knees.
"Hester!" he said, in amazement. "Hester!"
She was bareheaded. The snow was upon her hair and shoulders. She
brought in the smell of fire with her.
He tried to raise her, but she held him tightly with her bleeding hands,
looking up at him with a convulsed face. His own hands were red, as he
vainly tried to loosen hers.
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