en: through a side-door she looked into the great
roofless hall, the one grand thing about the house. Its majesty laid
hold upon her, and the shopkeeper's daughter felt the power of the
ancient dignity and ineffaceable beauty far more than any of the family
to which it had for centuries belonged.

She was standing lost in delight, when a rude voice called to her from
half-way up a stair:

"You're to come this way, miss."

With a start, she turned and went. It was a large room to which she was
led. There was no one in it, and she walked to an open window, which
had a wide outlook across the fields. A little to the right, over some
trees, were the chimneys of Thornwick. She almost started to see
them--so near, and yet so far--like the memory of a sweet, sad story.

"Do you like my prospect?" asked the voice of Hesper behind her. "It is
flat."

"I like it much, Miss Mortimer," answered Mary, turning quickly with a
bright face. "Flatness has its own beauty. I sometimes feel as if room
was all I wanted; and of that there is so much there! You see over the
tree-tops, too, and that is good--sometimes--don't you think?"

Miss Mortimer gave no other reply than a gentle stare, which expressed
no curiosity, although she had a vague feeling that Mary's words meant
something. Most girls of her class would hardly have got so far.

The summer was backward, but the day had been fine and warm, and the
evening was dewy and soft, and full of evasive odor. The window looked
westward, and the setting sun threw long shadows toward the house. A
gentle wind was moving in the tree-tops. The spirit of the evening had
laid hold of Mary. The peace of faithfulness filled the air. The day's
business vanished, molten in the rest of the coming night. Even
Hesper's wedding-dress was gone from her thoughts. She was in her own
world, and ready, for very, quietness of spirit, to go to sleep. But
she had not forgotten the delight of Hesper's presence; it was only
that all relation between them was gone except such as was purely human.

"This reminds me so of some beautiful verses of Henry Vaughan!" she
said, half dreamily.

"What do they say?" drawled Hesper.

Mary repeated as follows:

"'The frosts are past, the storms are gone,
And backward life at last comes on.
And here in dust and dirt, O here,
The Lilies of His love appear!'"

"Whose did you say the lines were?" asked Hesper, with merest automatic
response.

"Henry Vaughan's