ther, maiden, that thou never knewest one like mine. But God
knows both, Clarice, and He pities both, and when His time comes He will
comfort both. At the best time, child! Only let us acquaint ourselves
with Him, for so only can we be at peace. And now, farewell. I had
better go in and preach my sermon to myself."

Clarice was left alone again. She did not turn back to exactly the same
train of thought. A new idea had been given her, which was to become
the germ of a long train of others. She hardly put it into words, even
to herself; but it was this--that God meant something. He was not
sitting on the throne of the universe in placid indifference to her
sorrows; neither was He a malevolent Being who delighted in interfering
with the plans of His creatures simply to exhibit His own power. He was
doing this--somehow--for her benefit. She saw neither the how nor the
why; but He saw them, and He meant good to her. All the world was not
limited to the Slough of Despond at her feet. There was blue sky above.

Very vaguely Clarice realised this. But it was sufficient to soften the
rocky hardness which had been the worst element of her pain--to take
away the blind chance against which her impotent wings had been beaten
in vain efforts to escape from the dark cage. It was that contact with
"the living will of a living person," which gives the human element to
what would otherwise be hard, blind, pitiless fate.

Clarice rose, and looked up to the stars. No words came. The cry of
her heart was, "O Lord, I am oppressed; undertake for me." But she was
too ignorant to weave it into a prayer. When human hearts look up to
God in wordless agony, the Intercessor translates the attitude into the
words of Heaven.

Sad or bright, there was no time for thought on the Tuesday morning.
The day was bitterly cold, for it was the 16th of January 1291, and a
heavy hoar-frost silvered all the trees, and weighed down the bushes in
the Palace garden. Diana, wrapped in her white furs, was the picture of
health and merriment. Was it because she really had not enough heart to
care, or because she was determined not to give herself a moment to
consider? Clarice, white as the fur round her throat, pale and
heavy-eyed, grave and silent, followed Diana into the Palace chapel.
The Countess was there, handsomely attired, and the Earl, in golden
armour; but they stood on opposite sides of the chancel, and the former
ignored her lord'