To no one in the sacred building did Evensong sound more solemn and sweet than to the girl who for so long had been alienated from her Church. The General Confession, Psalms, Magnificat, and Nunc Dimittis brought back a host of recollections to her mind, even though she had lapsed into indifference for some time before her marriage. She could almost imagine herself back in the little parish church of Newlingham Heath—her father’s village—with her mother’s memorial tablet and window just above her head, and the memorial chancel rails a few paces to the front. Ah, if that mother had lived, what a different training she would have received! For the Countess Torrens had been known for her gentle piety, and it was only since her death that the Earl had drifted into Agnosticism. Thoroughly repentant and subdued, she determined to reconsecrate her life to the Highest, and to do all in her power to atone for her temporary aberration. The difficulties of the situation vanished away as she meditated upon the marvellous compelling power of the Divine. She was so certain that if she were but true to the highest instincts of her spiritual nature, all things would work together for good. The pettiness of the Jewish ceremonial should trouble her not at all; she would look through and above it to the Great Majesty beyond. There was a new impress of spirituality upon her face when, the service over, she left the church. The Princess guessed the nature of her thoughts, and instead of criticising—as she usually did—the sermon, the music, and the congregation, she remained silent for awhile. The Devonian curate suggested a walk to the Mount of Olives, for the night was fine, and the moon brilliantly full. So they betook themselves through the north-eastern suburb of the city, and past St. Stephen’s Gate, near where a belated beggar afflicted with the terrible disease of leprosy called out his melancholy warning “Lebbra!” and solicited alms. Then down they went into the Kidron Valley, and past the venerable olive trees of Gethsemane, where they paused awhile. Bathed in moonlight, the Sacred Garden seemed enwrapt by a solemn peace, and as lonely as in the time of old, save for the little chapel tended by Franciscan monks. Whether this were the authentic spot or not, it could not have been far away where the Agony of the Divine Sufferer had taken place; for the Mount of Olives was close at hand, and though all the ecclesiastical localities were spurious, this sacred mount remained unchanged. The ascent was steep and difficult, but they climbed high enough to obtain a splendid view. They could look right down into the Temple area on one side, and towards Bethany and the Dead Sea on the other. The air was cool and balmy, and so still that they scarcely cared to disturb the silence by conversation, but the Princess could not resist the temptation to quote some verses of a poem she remembered, which so beautifully described the scene: