The dawn of the third day of wandering broke bleak and raw, the fields white with a frost that clung to every hedge and branch like spun glass. The lovers rose stiff and hollow-eyed from their bed of earth, their limbs chilled through despite the meagre warmth of each other's embrace. The girl wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders, though it was thin against the bite of the air.
Her beloved watched her anxiously, his heart wrung by the pallor of her cheeks, the faint tremor of her lips. She never spoke complaint, never once uttered the word cold or hungry, but her silence was eloquence enough. Each step she took upon that frozen road seemed to strike his soul.
By noon they came upon a village small and poor, its cottages crouched low against the wind, their chimneys sending thin spirals of smoke into the grey sky. Children played listlessly in the lane, their garments patched and their cheeks ruddy. The lovers paused at the outskirts, uncertain whether to venture further. Too often had they met with coldness; too often had kind looks been followed by whispers of Lady Ashbourne's displeasure.
Yet need drove them on. They entered the village, their presence drawing the curious gaze of the inhabitants. Some turned away, unwilling to meddle in another's misfortune; others looked on with pity. At length they came upon a small church of stone, weathered and plain, its bell silent but its door open.
The girl's step faltered, and she clutched his arm. "Let us go in," she whispered. "If not for warmth, then for peace."
---
Inside, the church was dim, lit only by a few candles near the altar. The air was warmer, the stone walls sheltering them from the wind. They sat upon a bench, their hands still entwined, their eyes drawn instinctively upward to the crucifix that hung above.
Her beloved bowed his head, not in polished prayer but in a wordless cry of the heart. He had no eloquence, only desperation—that she might be spared further suffering, that he might find some strength to provide for her.
As they sat thus, the sound of footsteps echoed upon the stone. An elderly clergyman approached, his cassock worn, his face lined not with severity but with gentleness. He regarded them kindly, speaking in a voice low and grave.
"You look weary, my children. Have you come far?"
The girl answered softly, her voice trembling. "Far enough, sir. We are…without home."
The old man's eyes softened yet further. "Then rest you here as long as you need. The church doors are open to all who seek refuge." He paused, studying their faces, then added: "When the service ends tonight, come with me. My house is small, but its hearth is warm, and there is bread enough to share."
---
At these words, the girl's eyes filled with sudden tears, though she bowed her head quickly to hide them. Her beloved's pride wrestled fiercely within him, unwilling to accept charity, yet unwilling also to deny her relief. At last, mastering himself, he spoke with quiet dignity.
"Sir, we would not impose. We ask no more than a place to sit and pray."
The clergyman laid a hand upon his shoulder, his touch as light as a father's. "Young man, think not of imposition. The Lord sends us guests that we may serve them, not spurn them. To share one's bread is not loss but blessing."
There was such simplicity in his words that pride could make no answer. Her beloved bowed his head in silence, and the girl, perceiving his struggle, pressed his hand gently, her eyes speaking gratitude where his lips could not.
---
That evening, when the small congregation had departed, the clergyman kept his word. He led them across a narrow lane to his modest dwelling—a cottage no finer than the one they had lost, but warm with firelight and rich with the savour of simple fare. His housekeeper, a kindly woman with quick hands, set before them bowls of broth and coarse bread.
To the lovers, it was a banquet. They ate slowly, as though fearing to betray their hunger, yet every mouthful sent strength flowing back into their weary limbs. The girl's cheeks flushed faintly with returning colour, and her beloved, watching her, felt a weight lift from his heart.
When the meal was ended, the clergyman spoke again. "I have little wealth, but I have friends among the villagers. Tomorrow I shall speak to them. There may be work for a strong arm in the fields, or for a skilled hand in the smithy. The world is unkind, but not every heart is closed."
---
That night they lay upon a straw mattress in a small chamber above the hearth. It was no palace, no restored fortune, but to them it was heaven itself—a roof against the cold, a bed softer than the earth, and, above all, the knowledge that kindness had not vanished entirely from the world.
As she drifted into sleep, the girl whispered faintly, "See, I told you—heaven still watches. It sends us stars, and now it sends us candles."
Her beloved kissed her brow, his voice breaking as he murmured, "Yes, my love. And I swear to you, I shall build us a fire from those candles, a fire that no cruelty can extinguish."
And in that humble room, beneath the care of a stranger's mercy, the first glimmer of hope shone again upon the road of their sorrows.