nobler work for you to do than painting pictures.
Atonement,--reconciliation,--sacrifice."

"Where? when? how?"

He put these questions with a distinctness that required answer.

"Your heart will tell you."

He _had_ his answer.

"And the portrait yonder, that will tell you. It is not hers, you will
say. But it is not mine, nor a vision, except as you have glorified her.
In spite of yourself, you are true. And in spite of herself, Sybella
believes in you."

"Such a collection of incoherent fragments from the lips of an artist
accustomed to treat of unities,--it is incomprehensible."

So the painter began; but he ended,--

"When I come back from battle, I will think of what you say. I do
believe in my own integrity as firmly as I trust my loyalty."

There was a rare gentleness in the man's voice that seemed to say that
mists were rising to envelop the summits of the mountains, and he looked
forth, not to the bald heights, but along the purple heather-reaches,
where any human feet might walk, finding pleasant paths, fair flowers,
cool shades, and blessed reflections of heaven.

V.

The rector of St. Peter's sat in the vestry-room, which he used for his
study, when there came an interruption to the even tenor of his orthodox
thinking.

Whoever sought him did so with a determination that carried the various
doors between him and the study, and at last came the knock, of which he
sat in momentary dread. It expressed the outsider so imperatively, that
the minister at once laid aside his pen, and opened the door. And, alas!
it was Saturday, P. M.,--Easter at hand!

He should have been glad, of course, of the cordial hand-grasp with
which his stanch supporter, Gerald Deane, saluted him; but he had been
interrupted in necessary work, and his face betrayed him. It told
unqualified surprise, that, at such an hour, he had the honor of a visit
from the warden.

The warden, however, was absorbed in his own business to an extent that
prevented him from seeing what the minister's mood might be. He began to
speak the moment he had thrown himself into the arm-chair opposite Mr.
Muir.

"Do you know," said he, "what sort of person we've got here in our
organist?"

Indignant was the speaker's voice, and indignant were his eyes; he spoke
quick, breathed hard, showed all the signs of violent emotion.

The minister's bland face had a puzzled expression, as he answered,--

"A first-rate musician, Deane,--and a lady. T