Lady Aastrid looked lovingly at Maidoch. “Thou art ever most welcome to my home, and to my cloister; but dear child, do not bind thy hope so strongly on thy lord’s return. It is past twelve months since he left, and it was a perilous voyage through many strange lands. Death may have met him, and so, child, learn to loosen, little by little, this hope that clings so fast to thee; it may rend thy poor heart when it is sudden torn away. Learn to teach thy heart to place thy lord among the dead, for in truth I think he is no longer among the living.”
Maidoch clasped her hands tightly. “Not dead! Oh, no! dear Lady Aastrid. I can never teach my heart to place him among the dead. My dear lord can never be dead to me. Though he slept in the depths of the sea or lay lifeless on the battlefield, or dead on the desert sands, he is living always to my yearning sight, always to my listening ear, always to my hungry heart. Always I stretch out eager hands to some land that holds my hope. If dead to earth he is, even death cannot divide our plighted souls. Yet, dear lady, I cannot come to think of him as other than alive, although all say to me that he will not return. Thou wilt let me stay close beside thee till he comes,—close beside thee in thy cloister, because—” Maidoch hung her head in some confusion.
“Aye, child, thou dost need a shelter. Thou dost look troubled. Hath any one grieved thee?”
