The evening breeze wafted the sounds gently through the open casement of the room where the chaplain sat deep in study, and ever and anon he was fain to close his book and sit like one entranced, while for a moment he allowed his morning's fair vision to haunt his thoughts unchecked. He was tempted to stroll forth likewise into the cool copse, and beg to be a closer listener to the pleasant strains, but the fear of intruding an unwelcome presence held him back, and he and Primrose met no more that day, save when the household met for evening prayer in the tiny white-washed chamber which he had fitted up as an impromptu chapel in which to hold the daily services of the church. As none of the farmer's family could speak one word of English, these were said in the Welsh tongue; but Master Vere was as well versed in this language as were Lady Bryn Afon and Primrose, and all three were able, to join heartily in the hymns, in which the farm damsels uplifted voices of more power than sweetness, making the rafters ring with strains which, if somewhat uncouth to English ears, yet possessed of their own a sort of wild, barbaric beauty, and a weird, melancholy music, which haunted the ear. Meanwhile, the two dusky maidens of the south were fain to sit and tell their beads in the solitude of their own chamber, marvelling somewhat at the barbarous people's hearty worship in which they might not join, and half-tempted to steal in and listen, if they might not understand! But the fear of the displeasure of the good old priest at home in their own sunny valley held their footsteps, and made them tell their beads the faster. Primrose, for the first time seeing the young chaplain wear the pure white robe of his sacred office, could not but think that so clad he looked even yet more worthy to bear the name of her ideal knight, Sir Galahad. If ever outward garment did truly represent the inward purity of the soul, then surely it was so in the case of this youthful minister of God, whose deep yet clear-shining eyes were as windows through which a holy soul looked forth, and which, as Primrose gazed into their far-seeing depths, seemed truly--as spoke those words of Holy Writ, which came into her mind--to be "looking not at the things that are seen, but at the things that are unseen." Yes, her ideal Sir Galahad had been no empty shadow of an impossible stainless life, but a real, living knight, who now walked once more on earth, as it were, in the person of this holy man, so worthy to bear his name. "I am glad there is one like him among living men," she said softly to herself in the silence of her own chamber. "I have not dreamed foolishly of a knight who should be crowned with virtues impossible to mortal man, and live but in my fond fancy, but of one who truly walks this present world in the steps of my hero of old, whose name he bears right worthily, though it be but in jest among his fellows."