"my Wilderness service," as Rosamund called it. The
bells were ringing as he drove up with his modest luggage, and Rosamund
had already gone to the Cathedral and was seated in a stall.

"I should like to have half an hour's quiet meditation in church before
the service begins," she had remarked to Canon Wilton. And the Canon had
put her in a stall close to where he would presently be sitting, and had
then hurried back to meet Father Robertson.

"My Welsley!" was Rosamund's thought as she sat in her stall, quite
alone, looking up at the old jeweled glass in the narrow Gothic windows,
at the wonderful somber oak, age-colored, of the return stalls and
canopy beneath which Canon Wilton, as Canon-in-Residence, would soon be
sitting at right angles to her, at the distant altar lifted on high and
backed by a delicate marble screen, beyond which stretched a further,
tranquilly obscure vista of the great church. The sound of the bells
ringing far above her head in the gray central tower was heard by her,
but only just heard, as we hear the voices of the past murmuring of
old memories and of deeds which are almost forgotten. Distant footsteps
echoed among the great tombs of stone and of marble, which commemorated
the dead who had served God in that place in the gray years gone by.
In her nostrils there seemed to be a perfume, like an essence of
concentrated prayers sent up among these stone traceries, these pointed
arches, these delicate columns, by generations of believers. She felt
wrapped in a robe never woven by hands, in a robe that gave warmth to
her spirit.

A few people began stealing quietly in through the narrow archway in
the great screen which shut out the raised choir from the nave. Only
one bell sounded now in the gray tower. A faint noise, like an oncoming
sigh, above Rosamund's head heralded the organ's awakening, and was
followed by the whisper of its most distant voice, a voice which made
her think--she knew not why--of the sea whispering about a coral reef in
an isle of the Southern Seas, part of God's world, mysteriously linked
to "my Welsley." She shut her eyes, seeking to feel more strongly the
sensation of unity. When she opened them she saw, sitting close to her
in the return stalls, Father Robertson. His softly glowing eyes were
looking at her, and did not turn away immediately. She felt that he knew
she was his fellow-guest, and was conscious of a delicious sensation of
sympathy, of giving and taking,