as in His churches. One could worship
Him in a grove of beech trees, in a beautiful garden, on a high hill, by
the banks of a bright river. God was in the rustle of the leaves, and
the hum of a bee, in the dew on the grass, and the scent of flowers; God
was in everything! And he added to his usual prayer this whisper: "I
give Thee thanks for my senses, O Lord. In all of us, keep them bright,
and grateful for beauty." Then he remained motionless, prey to a sort of
happy yearning very near, to melancholy. Great beauty ever had that
effect on him. One could capture so little of it--could never enjoy it
enough! Who was it had said not long ago: "Love of beauty is really only
the sex instinct, which nothing but complete union satisfies." Ah! yes,
George--Gratian's husband. George Laird! And a little frown came
between his brows, as though at some thorn in the flesh. Poor George!
But then, all doctors were materialists at heart--splendid fellows,
though; a fine fellow, George, working himself to death out there in
France. One must not take them too seriously. He plucked a bit of
sweetbrier and put it to his nose, which still retained the shine of that
bleaching ointment Noel had insisted on his using. The sweet smell of
those little rough leaves stirred up an acute aching. He dropped them,
and drew back. No longings, no melancholy; one ought to be out, this
beautiful morning!

It was Sunday; but he had not to take three Services and preach at least
one sermon; this day of rest was really to be his own, for once. It was
almost disconcerting; he had so long felt like the cab horse who could
not be taken out of the shafts lest he should fall down. He dressed with
extraordinary deliberation, and had not quite finished when there came a
knock on his door, and Noel's voice said: "Can I come in, Daddy?"

In her flax-blue frock, with a Gloire de Dijon rose pinned where it met
on her faintly browned neck, she seemed to her father a perfect vision of
freshness.

"Here's a letter from Gratian; George has been sent home ill, and he's
gone to our house. She's got leave from her hospital to come home and
nurse him."

Pierson read the letter. "Poor George!"

"When are you going to let me be a nurse, Daddy?"

"We must wait till you're eighteen, Nollie."

"I could easily say I was. It's only a month; and I look much more."

Pierson smiled.

"Don't I?"

"You might be anything from fifteen to twenty-five, my de