erent in
shape from the rest, and as an addition to his silken cassock he wore a
train. He was accompanied by his daughter. Daring in her assertion of
the vocation which had withdrawn her from the gaieties of life she wore
the gray robe of a little lay-sister of Poverty.

"His Grace the Archbishop of Ebury, Prince Palatine of the Southern
Sees, Archdeacon of Rome, Vicar of Jerusalem, and Primate of all the
Churches," so, upon entry to the Presence, his full and canonical titles
were proclaimed by an usher of the Court.

After so high a flourish more impressive in its way was the simple
announcement that followed: "Sister Jenifer Chantry."

Dignity led, quiet unassuming modesty came after; indifferent to her
surroundings, obedient to the call of duty, she advanced in her father's
wake toward the royal circle. They bowed their way round; and there,
suddenly before him, Prince Max beheld the face of his dreams.

The eyes of the beloved met his; and he, struggling desperately to
conceal his excitement and emotion from those who stood looking on, saw
himself recognized without shock or quiver of disturbance. No
heightening of color belied that look of quiet assurance and peace; with
disciplined ease, perfect in self-possession, she courtesied and passed
him by. And suddenly it seemed to him that all the air was filled with a
strange humming sound, soft yet penetrating, like the populous murmur of
a summer's day. Above the rustle of robes, the patter of feet, the
subdued murmur of voices, and the regulated tones wherein Court ushers
were announcing fresh names, that high vibratory note went on; elated
and thrilled he listened to it and wondered, not knowing its cause--the
quickened murmur of his own blood at the touch of Love's index finger
upon his heart.

Now at last he knew who she was; now he could find her again on
unforbidden ground, follow her where she had no excuse to hide,
and press against all obstacles for an earthly fulfilment of
that unpractically directed thing called prayer. For now it
should not be only her prayer for him, but his for her; her very
name--Chantry--expressed the need he had of her. She was the shrine
within which his soul kneeled down to pray--not to any God, but to life
itself. Here was the matrix from which all his desultory and scattered
forces had been waiting to receive form and direction; to his own small
fragment of that general outpouring which we call life, purpose and
destiny ha