sfaction.

She stood, she knelt, her prayer book open upon the carved margin of the
tomb, the slender crossed legs and paws of the alert little marble dog
serving as so often before for bookrest. Canon Horniblow boomed and
droned, like some unctuous giant bumble-bee, from the reading-desk. The
choir intoned responses from the gallery with liberal diversity of pitch.
And presently, alas! Damaris' thoughts began to wander, making flitting
excursions right and left. For half-way through the litany some belated
worshipper arrived, causing movement in the men's free seats. This oddly
disturbed her. Her mind flew again to Faircloth, and the strange
impression of her own soul's return declaring this and no other to be his
actual neighbourhood. And if it indeed were so?--Damaris thrust back the
emotions begotten of that question, as unpermissibly stormy at this time
and in this place.

She tried to fix her thoughts wholly upon the office. But, all too soon
they sprang aside again, now circling about the enigmatic back beheld in
the Miss Minetts' pew. Of whom did that round, dressy little form remind
her? Why--why--of Theresa, of course. Not Theresa, genius and saint of
Spanish Avila; but Theresa Bilson, her sometime governess-companion of
doubtfully amiable memory. She longed to satisfy herself, but could only
do so by turning round and looking squarely--a manoeuvre impossible
during the prayers, but which might be accomplished later, when the
congregation rose to sing the hymn before the sermon.

She must wait. And during that waiting light, rather divertingly, broke
in on her. For supposing her belief as to the lady's identity correct,
must not dear Aunt Felicia be party to this resurrection? Had not she
known, and stolen forth this morning to perfect some innocent plot of
peace-making? In furtherance of which she now cunningly remained at home,
thus leaving Damaris free to offer renewal of favour or withhold it as
she pleased. Was not that deliciously characteristic of Aunt Felicia and
her permanent effort to serve two masters--to make everybody happy, and,
regardless of conflicting interests, everybody else too?--Well, Damaris
was ready to fulfil her wishes. She bore Theresa no ill-will. An
inclination to grudge or resentment seemed to her unworthy. Whatever
Theresa's tiresomenesses, they were over and done with, surely, quite
immensely long ago.

The hymn given out and the tune of it played through, the assembly
scrape