knows the bottom of them. I'll
follow that friar round the world, but I'll see him at arm's length. And
he shall tell me why he looked towards me like a dead man wakened; and
not a soul behind me. Oh, father; you often praised me here: speak a
word for me there. For I am wading in deep waters."

Her father's tomb commanded a side view of the church door. And on that
tomb she sat, with her face covered, waylaying the holy preacher.

CHAPTER LXXXVI

THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH

The cool church chequered with sunbeams and crowned with heavenly
purple, soothed and charmed Father Clement, as it did Margaret; and
more, it carried his mind direct to the Creator of all good and pure
delights. Then his eye fell on the great aisle crammed with his country
folk; a thousand snowy caps, filigreed with gold. Many a hundred leagues
he had travelled; but seen nothing like them, except snow. In the
morning he had thundered; but this sweet afternoon seemed out of tune
with threats. His bowels yearned over that multitude; and he must tell
them of God's love: poor souls, they heard almost as little of it
from the pulpit then a days as the heathen used. He told them the glad
tidings of salvation. The people hung upon his gentle, earnest tongue.

He was not one of those preachers who keep gyrating in the pulpit like
the weathercock on the steeple. He moved the hearts of others more than
his own body. But on the other hand he did not entirely neglect those
who were in bad places. And presently, warm with this theme, that none
of all that multitude might miss the joyful tidings of Christ's love, he
turned him towards the south aisle.

And there, in a stream of sunshine from the window, was the radiant face
of Margaret Brandt. He gazed at it without emotion. It just benumbed
him, soul and body.

But soon the words died in his throat, and he trembled as he glared at
it.

There, with her auburn hair bathed in sunbeams, and glittering like the
gloriola of a saint, and her face glowing doubly, with its own beauty,
and the sunshine it was set in-stood his dead love.

She was leaning very lightly against a white column. She was listening
with tender, downcast lashes.

He had seen her listen so to him a hundred times.

There was no change in her. This was the blooming Margaret he had left:
only a shade riper and more lovely.

He started at her with monstrous eyes and bloodless cheeks.

The people died out of his sight. He heard, as