rd the music of the bells has
never succeeded in discovering the way that leads to the lost church.
It is on the clear night of St. John's Day, the longest day of the
year, or on the last hour of Christmas Eve, that these bells are heard
pealing most sweet and clear.

It was in this way that we came to tell Christian legends and to talk
of saints and hermits, of old abbeys and minsters, of visions and
miracles and the ministry of Angels. Guy, W. V. thought, might be
able, if only he could speak, to tell us much about heaven and the
Angels; it was so short a time since he left them. She herself had
quite forgotten, but, then--deprecatingly--it was so long and long and
long ago; "eight years, a long time for me."

The faith and the strange vivid daydreams of the Middle Ages were a new
world into which she was being led along enchanted footpaths; quite
different from the worldly world of the "Old Romans," and of English
history; more real it seemed and more credible, for all its wonders,
than the world of elves and water-maidens. Delightful as it was, it
was scarce believable that fairies ever carried a little girl up above
the tree-tops and swung her in the air from one to another; but when
St. Catherine of Siena was a little child, and went to be a hermit in
the woods, and got terribly frightened, and lost her way, and sat down
to cry, the Angels, you know, did really and truly waft her up on their
wings and carried her to the valley of Fontebranda, which was very near
home. And when she was quite a little thing and used to say her
prayers going up to bed, the Angels would come to her and just "whip"
her right up the stairs in an instant!

Occasionally these legends brought us to the awful brink of religious
controversies and insoluble mysteries, but, like those gentle savages
who honour the water-spirits by hanging garlands from tree to tree
across the river, W. V. could always fling a bridge of flowers over our
abysses. "Our sense," she would declare, "is nothing to God's; and
though big people have more sense than children, the sense of all the
big people in the world put together would be no sense to His." "We
are only little babies to Him; we do not understand Him at all."
Nothing seemed clearer to her than the reasonableness of one legend
which taught that though God always answers our prayers, He does not
always answer in the way we would like, but in some better way than we
know. "Yes," she observed, "H