"Then tell the Father Superior--he knows me--that the lady who gave the new altar wishes to speak to him about it." "Father Superior is holding a mission in New York." "Where is the sacristan?" "'Free time' has just begun, and he has gone to look after his beehives. I can call Father Phillips." "No. I do not care to meet any of the Brotherhood who do not know me. I was here once with my father, and Father Temple has visited my house in the South. I came merely to look at the new altar, and bring some fresh covers to the sacristan. Do not disturb any one; this is 'free time,' and I must not keep you. Please say nothing about me now. I shall go into the chapel--I know the way--and then return to my carriage." He opened the nearest door of the chapel, bowed, and disappeared. Before the carved panel in the centre of the altar she stood some moments, rejoicing that the sculptor had succeeded so well in reproducing the cherub heads running as a frieze between the columns. From the box she shook out two pulpit-falls, one embroidered with iris, one with passion flowers; then a chalice veil of shimmering white silk marked with a Greek cross. Beneath these lay a long altar cover of snowy linen cambric, "the fair linen cloth," studded with crosses along the centre, and bordered with annunciation lilies. She smoothed and arranged it on the polished surface of the shrine, while a vision of an added seraph, standing _in memoriam_ at each end, shone before her. She recalled Tennyson's inscription in Westminster Abbey, where one wife, widowed by Polar perils, had set her tribute of love. To her the sympathy of the world went out, and the nations, sharing her long search, shared her sorrow. Misunderstood and censured, Eglah bore her burden alone, and now, sinking to her knees, with her forehead pressed against the marble, she prayed that the wanderer in desolate lands might be guarded from every ill and brought safely home. Prayer always deepened her impression that he would return, and as she rose and loitered a moment in admiration of the chiselled stone, her sad lips whispered to her lonely heart: "He will come,-- Ay, he will come! I can not make him dead." Suddenly her heart leaped, then seemed to forget to beat. A voice rich, mellow, unmistakable, came from the arched gallery beyond the little oratory opening into the chapel: "Roy, you are no baby, and my singing days are over." A feeble, nervous tone answered: