and the voice of gladness, the voice of the
bridegroom and the voice of the bride, the sound of the mill-stones and
the light of the candle mattered not. But the kingdom of all the
worlds--the worlds and habitations not made with hands--rose up as the
real theatre of man's destiny and the fit measure of his achievements.
It is that sense of the eternity of consequences--and that sense
only--which can satisfy the human heart. Time is too short, this planet
is too small, and this mortal body is too weak for the surging thoughts,
the unintelligible desires of the soul. Nothing less than infinity can
hallow emotions: their passingness--which seems the rule in the fever
and turmoil of city life--is not their abatement but their degradation.
Change they must, but perish utterly they may not.

The women travellers, as the lights of the capital grew more numerous,
and the roar of the traffic louder and more constant, drew back within
themselves, assuming, unconsciously, the outward bearing--fatigued,
sceptical, and self-distrustful--of the town-bred. When they reached
Curzon Street, the two heaps of letters, the telegrams and cards on the
hall-table symbolised crudely enough the practical side of daily
affairs. One name--an unknown one--among the many engraved on the white
scraps caught Brigit's attention at once:

_The Rev. J. M. Foster._

"That gentleman is a priest, Madam," said the butler; "he will call
again this evening. I told him that we expected you and her Ladyship
about seven."

For some reason she felt alarmed. All that day and the night before she
had been agitated by an inexplicable dread of strange tidings. She went
to her room, but, without removing her travelling cloak or her hat, she
sat down on the edge of her bed, waiting for some summons. Presently it
came. Father Foster was in the library with Lady Fitz Rewes. Would Mrs.
Parflete see him? She went down, and Pensee stood watching for her at
the open door.

"My poor child!" she said, with a sob in her voice, as she drew Brigit
into the room. "My poor child," she repeated, "Father Foster has come to
tell us that--that Mr. Parflete died last night."

The priest stepped forward with the decision, and also the stern
kindness, of those accustomed to break hard messages.

"He was injured in a quarrel, and died from the effect of the wound. He
declined to give any particulars of the affair, and I fear we must call
it a myste