They walked across the old lawn under some ancient cedars, and then went down a path in a shrubbery until they reached the road by a private gate. Only a few steps down the road brought them to the little church. It lay in the midst of trees, the churchyard was beautifully kept and borders of spring flowers were on each side of the path, which led up to the church door. The door was not locked, and they went in quietly. Gentian caught her breath as she looked about her, and Mrs. Wharnecliffe saw her blue eyes get soft and dreamy. All her quick independent bearing seemed to forsake her; and she listened to Thorold's account of the old carved screen, and the beautiful mellow coloured windows, with quiet, pensive face. "Would you like to try the organ?" he asked her. "I will blow for you." For a moment she hesitated. "It's a very beautiful one, though small," he said; "your cousin Charles had a great affection for this little church; he spent a good bit of money on it. Everything is of the best in it, as you see." She moved towards the organ without another word. Mrs. Wharnecliffe sat down just inside the porch and waited. She knew she was going to have a treat, and when once Gentian's hands were upon the keys, she was not in a hurry to take them off. Her music absorbed her; she played without notes, and Thorold heard in wonder; he did not know she was such a musician. She played from memory; a medley; bits of Mozart, Chopin, and Bach. Then very softly and sweetly she began to improvise, and time and surroundings faded right away from her. She started when at last Mrs. Wharnecliffe touched her elbow. "Your blower will be getting tired. You have been playing for over half an hour." "Oh, it has been heavenly." Her cheeks were flushed and eyes bright, but she slipped off the organ stool at once, and thanked Thorold very prettily when he joined them again. "It's a good instrument," he said. "Yes, almost as good as the convent one." "And now I want you to come along the road a little farther," Thorold said. He and Mrs. Wharnecliffe walked out of the church together, but Gentian lingered behind, and when he turned he saw her kneeling in the aisle, her head buried in her hands. She caught them up a few minutes later. Her face was perfectly radiant. "I like your organ and your church better than your house and your books," she said. He smiled at her. "It's safer," he said. She hardly heard him. "What a darling sweet little house," she said, stopping suddenly before a small green wooden gate, and looking up a tiled path edged by box borders, to a quaint low grey stone house with broad windows, red japonica and yellow jasmine climbing up its walls. "This used to be the Vicarage," he said, "and was in your cousin's gift; but since his death, Crowhurst has been joined to the next parish where our rector lives, and I let this furnished. We lost our tenants a couple of months ago. Would you like to come inside? I have the key."