in the chapel, in one of those deep embrasures against the
walls, was May Dashwood. But she was alone. Lady Dashwood had been too
tired to come with her, and Gwendolen had been hurried off to Potten End
immediately after lunch, strangely reluctant to go. So May had come to
the Chapel alone, and, not knowing that Boreham was in the ante-chapel
waiting for her, she had some comfort in the seclusion and remoteness of
that sacred place. Not that the tragedy of the world was shut out and
forgotten, as it is in those busy market-places where men make money and
listen too greedily to the chink of coin to hear any far-off sounds from
the plain of Armageddon. May got comfort, not because she had forgotten
the tragedy of the world and was soothed by soft sounds, but because
that tragedy was remembered in this hour of prayer; because she was
listening to the cry of the Hebrew poet, uttered so long ago and echoed
now by distressful souls who feel just as he felt the desperate problem
of human suffering and the desire for peace.

"Why art thou so vexed, O my soul;
And why art thou so disquieted within me?"

And then the answer; an answer which to some is meaningless, but which,
to the seeker after the "things that are invisible," is the only
answer--the answer that the soul makes to itself--

"O put thy trust in God!"

* * * * *

May observed no one in the Chapel; she saw nothing but the written words
in the massive Prayer-book on the desk before her; and when at last the
service was over, she came out looking neither to right nor left, and
was startled to find herself emerging into the fresh air with Boreham by
her side, claiming her company back to the Lodgings.

It was just dusk and the moon was rising in the east. Though it could
not be seen, its presence was visible in the thin vaporous lightness of
the sky. The college buildings stood out dimly, as if seen by a pallid
dawn.

"You leave Oxford on Monday?" began Boreham, as they went through the
entrance porch out into the High and turned to the right.

"Yes," said May, and a sigh escaped her. That Boreham noticed.

"I don't deny the attractions of Oxford," he said. "All I object to is
its pretensions."

"You don't like originality," murmured May.

She was thinking of the slums of London where she worked. What a
contrast with this noble street! Why should men be allowed to build dens
and hovels for other men to live in? Wh