een to?"

"To church--the church with a spire at the end of the parade," said
Lovibond.

"St. Thomas's--I know it," said Davy.

St. Thomas's was half way up to Castle Mona.

The men strolled out at the window, which opened on to the warm, soft
turf of the Head, and lay down there with their faces to the sun-lit
bay.

"Who preached?" said Davy, clasping hands at the back of his head.

"A young woman," said Lovibond.

Davy lifted his head out of its socket, "My goodness!" he said.

"Well, at all events," explained Lovi-bond, "it was a girl who preached
to _me_. The moment I went into the church I saw her, and I saw nothing
else until I came out again."

Davy laughed, "Ay, that's the way a girl slips in," said he. "Who was
she?"

"Nay; I don't know," said Lovibond; "but she sat over against me on
the opposite side of the aisle, and her face was the only prayer-book I
could keep my eyes from wandering from."

"And what was her tex', mate?"

"Beauty, grace, truth, the tenderness of a true heart, the sweetness of
a soul that is fresh and pure."

Davy looked up with vast solemnity. "Take care," said he. "There's odds
of women, sir. They're like sheep's broth is women. If there's a heart
and head in them they're good, and if there isn't you might as well be
supping hot water. Faces isn't the chronometer to steer your boat to the
good ones. Now I've seen some you could swear to----."

"I'll swear to this one," said Lovibond with an appearance of tremendous
earnestness.

Davy looked at him, gravely. "D'ye say so?" said he.

"Such eyes, Capt'n--big and full, and blue, and then pale, pale blue, in
the whites of them too, like--like----."

"I know," said Davy; "like a blackbird's eggs with the young birds just
breaking out of them."

"Just," said Lovibond, "And then her hair, Capt'n--brown, that brown
with a golden bloom, as if it must have been yellow when she was a
child."

"I know the sort, sir," said Davy, proudly; "like the ling on the
mountains in May, with the gorse creeping under it."

"Exactly. And then her voice, Cap tain, her voice--."

"So you were speaking to her?" said Davy.

"No, but didn't she sing?" said Lovi-bond. "Such tones, soft and
tremulous, rising and falling, the same as--as--."

"Same as the lark's, mate," said Davy, eagerly; "same as the
lark's--first a burst and a mount and then a trimble and a tumble, as if
she'd got a drink of water out of the clouds of heaven, and was sin