"Take these, stranger," he said. "I don’t want them. And good luck to you!" The man’s face brightened up as he took the pipe and pouch. "You’re uncommon kind," he said. "Can you spare them?" he added, holding them out half-reluctantly. "Yes," answered the old man; "I shall not smoke again. You may as well have these matches, too." The laborer put them in his pocket, smiled his thanks, and walked some little distance off; and Helen watched him examine his new pipe, and then fill it with tobacco and light it. Mr. Lindall proposed that they should be getting on their way to Westminster, and they soon found themselves in the Abbey. They sat together in the Poet’s Corner. A smile of quiet happiness broke over the old man’s tired face as he looked around and took in all the solemn beauty and grandeur of the resting place of the great. "You know," he said half to himself, half to his companion, "I have no belief of any kind, and no hopes and no fears; but all through my life it has been a comfort to me to sit quietly in a church or a cathedral. The graceful arches, the sun shining through the stained windows, the vaulted roof, the noble columns, have helped me to understand the mystery which all our books of philosophy cannot make clear, though we bend over them year after year, and grow old over them, old in age and in spirit. Though I myself have never been outwardly a worshiper, I have never sat in a place of worship but that, for the time being, I have felt a better man. But directly the voice of doctrine or dogma was raised, the spell was broken for me, and that which I hoped was being made clear had no further meaning for me. There was only one voice which ever helped me, the voice of the organ arousing me, filling me with strange longing, with welcome sadness, with solemn gladness. I have always thought that music can give an answer when everything else is of no avail. I do not know what you believe." "I am so young to have found out," she said, almost pleadingly.