nightfall, he resolved to say his evening prayer ere passing onwards, and profit in so far as he might by the probably rude eloquence of the unlettered Welsh curate likely to occupy the pulpit in so benighted a region. The little building was well filled, and it was only in a far corner at its furthest end that Master Taylor could find a vacant seat. But whose voice was it from which the barbarous Welsh words rolled out so musically, and whose tones made him start from his dark corner and eagerly scan the features of him from whom they proceeded? Was it Percival Vere or his ghost, who with face of deadly pallor and brown locks thickly strewn with grey, yet spoke with Percival's own voice of ringing music, and raised to heaven those deep, far-searching eyes which could belong to none other than Sir Galahad? Master Taylor's thoughts wandered beyond his control during the conclusion of the prayers, for his heart ached miserably for his friend, whom he saw so terribly changed in countenance, whose very voice rang with a burning intensity of pain, and who, when he mounted the pulpit and faced the congregation, looked but like some pale spectre of his former self, gazing forth upon his flock with eyes worn and weary with sleeplessness, and dimmed with the troubled, yearning expression gained through days of agonised searching into the mysteries of the divine will. Jeremy shrank into his corner, knowing that his friend was addressing a congregation to whom his sorrows were unknown, and to whom he was a stranger, and unwilling himself to be recognised, lest his presence should give pain. He listened almost breathlessly for the text, and when in clear, unfaltering tones the young preacher read out the words, "Son of man, behold I take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke," he bent his head upon his breast and wept. "Yet neither shalt thou mourn nor weep," continued the stern, unnaturally-controlled tones of the chaplain, "neither shall thy tears run down."