y they could not be

Between the window and the ground,
She mercy sought and mercy found.

No, Agnes was sure that he had not said "window," and yet window seemed
the only word that would fit the case. And he had not said, "_she_ mercy
found"; he had said, "_he_ mercy sought and mercy found"--of that Agnes
felt sure, and that, too, was odd. But then, Father Ferguson was very
odd sometimes, and he was fond of quoting in his sermons queer little
bits of verse of which no one had ever heard.

Suddenly she bethought herself, with more annoyance than the matter was
worth, that in her agitation she had left Mr. Ferrier's newspaper in
the sacristy. She did not like the thought that Father Ferguson would
probably read those pretty, curious verses, "My Lady of the Snow."

Also, Agnes had actually forgotten to speak to the old priest of her
impertinent cook!

II

We find Agnes Barlow again walking in Summerfield; but this time she is
hurrying along the straight, unlovely cinder-strewn path which forms a
short cut from the back of The Haven to Summerfield station; and the
still, heavy calm of a late November afternoon broods over the rough
ground on either side of her.

It is nearly six months since Teresa Maldo's elopement and subsequent
suicide, and now no one ever speaks of poor Teresa, no one seems to
remember that she ever lived, excepting, perhaps, Father Ferguson....

As for Agnes herself, life had crowded far too many happenings into the
last few weeks for her to give more than a passing thought to Teresa;
indeed, the image of her dead friend rose before her only when she was
saying her prayers. And as Agnes, strange to say, had grown rather
careless as to her prayers, the memory of Teresa Maldo was now very
faint indeed.

An awful, and to her an incredible, thing had happened to Agnes Barlow.
The roof of her snug and happy House of Life had fallen in, and she lay,
blinded and maimed, beneath the fragments which had been hurled down on
her in one terrible moment.

Yes, it had all happened in a moment--so she now reminded herself, with
the dull ache which never left her.

It was just after she had come back from Westgate with little Francis.
The child had been ailing for the first time in his life, and she had
taken him to the seaside for six weeks.

There, in a day, it had turned from summer to winter, raining as it only
rains at the seaside; and suddenly Agnes had made up her mind to go back
to h