ng with life. She was glad
to be alone. The marble calm above all counteracted and drove aside the
painful phantom left by Lovedy's agony, and yet the words of that poor,
persecuted, suffering child came surging into her mind full of peace and
hope. Perhaps it was the first time she had entered into what it is
for weak things to confound the wise, or how things hidden from the
intellectual can be revealed to babes; and she hid her face in her
hands, and was thankful for the familiar words of old, "That we may
embrace and ever hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life."

The continued clang of the bell warned her. She looked round at the
still uncleared room, poor Bessie's rings and bracelets lying mingled
with her own on the toilet table, and her little clock, Bessie's own
gift, standing ticking on as it had done at her peaceful rising only
yesterday morning.

She took out her hat, and was on her way to silence the bell-ringer,
when Mr. Clare was driven up to the churchyard gate.

Lord Keith had been greatly shocked, but not overpowered, he had spoken
calmly, and made minute inquiries, and Mr. Clare was evidently a little
disappointed, repeating that age and health made a difference, and that
people showed their feelings in various ways. Colonel Keith had been
met at the station, and was with his brother, but would come to make
arrangements in the course of the day. Rachel begged to stop the bell,
representing that the assembled congregation included no male person
capable of reading the lessons; but Mr. Clare answered, "No, my dear,
this is not a day to do without such a beginning. We must do what we
can. Or stay, it is the last chapter of St. John. I could hardly fail in
that. Sit near me, and give me the word if I do, unless you want to be
with Alick."

As Rachel knelt that day, the scales of self-conceit seemed to have
gone. She had her childhood's heart again. Her bitter remorse, her
afterthoughts of perplexity had been lulled in the long calm of the
respite, and when roused again, even by this sudden sorrow, she woke to
her old trust and hope. And when she listened to the expressive though
calm rehearsal of that solemn sunrise-greeting to the weary darkling
fishers on the shore of the mountain lake, it was to her as if the form
so long hidden from her by mists of her own raising, once more shone
forth, smoothing the vexed waters of her soul, and she could say with a
new thrill of recognition, "It is the