r end of the nave was open to the public; the greater part
was enclosed within a high grille of gilded ironwork of an elaborate
design, through which Evelyn could vaguely discern the plain oak stalls
of the nuns on either side, stretching towards the ornate altar, carved
in white stone. And falling through the pointed windows, the long rays
slanted across the empty chapel; in the golden air there was a faint
sense of incense; it recalled the Benediction and the figures of the
departed watchers who had knelt motionless all day before the elevated
Host. The faintly-burning lamp remained to inspire the mind with
instinctive awe and a desire of worship. And as always, in the presence
of the Blessed Sacrament, Evelyn's doubts vanished, and she knelt in
momentary prayer beside the two nuns.

Then at her request they went into the garden. It was the part of the
convent she remembered best. She recognised at once the broad terrace
walk extending the full length of the house, from the new wing to the
rose garden whence some steps led to the lower grounds. They were
several acres in extent and sloped gently to the south-west. The
Reverend Mother and the priests had turned to the left; they had
business matters to discuss and were going round the garden by the outer
walk. Evelyn and Mother Philippa chose the middle path. The sunset was
before them, and the wistfulness of a distant park sinking into blue
mist. Evelyn thought that in all her travels she had never seen anything
so lovely as the convent garden in that evening light. It filled her
soul with an ecstatic sense of peace and joy, and a sudden passionate
desire to share this life of calm and happy seclusion brought tears to
her eyes. She could not speak, but Mother Philippa, with a single, quick
glance, seemed instinctively to understand, and it was in silence that
they walked down a grassy path, that led between the narrow beds filled
with a gay tangle of old-fashioned flowers, to a little summer-house.
Behind the summer-house, at the bottom of the garden, was a broad walk
pleasantly shaded by the overhanging branches of the elms.

"We call this St. Peter's path," Mother Philippa said placidly, "and for
his feast the novices put up his statue in the summer-house and decorate
it with flowers. They always come here for their mid-day recreation."

"Your garden is quite lovely, Mother Philippa; I remember it all so
well."

They wandered on, past the apple and plum trees lad