the steps to the
nave. The fugue was a glorious, sturdy thing, like a great solid
body inhabited by a big, noble, unquestioning soul--a soul free from
hesitations, that knew its way to God and would not be hindered from
taking it. A straight course to the predestined end--that was good, that
was glorious! The splendid clamor of the organ above her, growing in
sonorous force, filled Rosamund with exultation. She longed to open
her mouth and sing; the blood came to her cheeks; her eyes shone; she
mounted on the waves of sound; she was wound up with the great fugue,
and felt herself part of it. The gradual working up thrilled her whole
being; she was physically and spiritually seized hold of and carried
along towards a great and satisfying end. At last came the trumpet with
its sound of triumphant flame, and the roar of the pedals was like the
roaring of the sea. Already the end was there, grandly inherent in
the music, inevitably, desired by all the voices of the organ. All the
powers of the organ thundered towards it, straining to be there.

It came, like something on the top of the world.

"If I were a man that's the way I should like to go to God!" said
Rosamund to herself, springing up. "That's the way, in a chariot of
fire."

Unconscious of what she was doing she stretched out her hands with a
big gesture and opened her lips to let out a breath; then, in the gray
silence of the now empty Cathedral, she saw Father Robertson's eyes.

He stepped down from his stall and went out through the archway, and
she followed him. On the steps, just beyond the rood-screen, she met
a small, determined-looking man with hot cheeks and shining eyes. She
guessed at once that he was the organist, went up to him and thanked him
enthusiastically.

The organist was the first person she captivated in Welsley, where she
was to have so many warm adherents very soon.

Father Robertson went back to Canon Wilton's house while Rosamund talked
to the organist, with whom she walked as far as a high wooden gate
labeled "Mr. Dickinson."

"You've got a walled garden too!" she remarked, as her companion took
off his hat with an "I live here."

The organist looked inquiring. Rosamund laughed.

"How could you know? It's only that I've been visiting a delicious old
house, with a walled garden, to-day. It's to let."

"Oh, Mrs. Duncan Browning's!" said Mr. Dickinson. "I--I'm sure I hope
you're going to take it."

"I may!" said Rosamund. "Good-