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But he would not have her. The rub was there rather than in religion. He had been asked to have her, and would not. She knew that and had been told. No one would have her, because she was a Papist, and too masterful for most—and now she was growing past the age . . . and it is against religion to believe the words of conjurers.

Sighing deeply, she put her elbows on the sill, and cupping her chin in her hands, stared up at the glittering sky. Then the music began. She knew that Kit's fingers were plucking it for her, plucking it and sending it up to her without knowing or caring if she heard it. Down in the parlour it was a merry tune, but as the notes crept out the night breathed on them and turned them to sadness. It was a sad melody that reached her ears, making her feel sad, with a sadness that was part of the night, of the black, sighing trees, and the tunnels under the trees, and the wild, shaggy places of the garden, the ghostly waters of the river, and the far-off dazzle of the stars.