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The Lady Margaret stood by the sundial in her pleasaunce, gazing wistfully down at it. It was May now, and all about her flowers bloomed, while the trees in the orchard, beyond the hedge, were laden with blossom. The sun shone warmly down upon the garden, and the birds sang, but the Lady Margaret was sad.
For a long time she stood motionless, thinking of one day in February when she had come running to this spot to warn Simon of danger. And as she thought, she smiled a little, drearily, and brushed her hand across her eyes. No word had come from him since March, and although Geoffrey made light of it, saying that Simon would never write unless he were forced to do so, Margaret felt the silence ominous, and feared she knew not what.