"Thou art right," gently replied Bruno. "The south wind must blow upon the garden, ere the spices can flow out. Ask the Lord--I will ask Him also--to pour on thee the gift of the Holy Ghost." "How many Paters?" said the girl in a weary tone. "One will do, my daughter, if thou wilt put thy whole heart into it." "I can put my heart into nothing." "Then say to Him this only--`Lord, I bring Thee a dead heart, that Thou mayest give it life.'" She said the words after him, mechanically, like a child repeating a lesson. "How long will it take?" "He knows--not I." "But suppose I die first?" "The Lord will not let thee die unsaved, if thou hast a sincere wish for salvation. He wants it more than thou." "He wants it!" repeated Margaret wonderingly. "He wants it. He wants thee. Did He die for thee, child, that He should let thee go lightly? Thou art as precious in His sight as if the world held none beside thee." "I did not think I was that to any one--except my parents and--and Richard." "Thou art that, incomparably more than to any of them, to the Lord Jesus." The momentary exhibition of feeling was past. "Well!" she said, with a dreary sigh. "It may be so. But I cannot care about it." Bruno's answer was not addressed to Margaret. "Lord, care about it for her! Breathe upon this dead, that she may live! Save her in spite of herself!" There was a slight pause, and then Bruno quietly gave the absolution, and the confession was over. The next Sunday, there was the unwonted occurrence of a sermon after vespers. Sermons were not fashionable at that time. When preached at all, they were usually extremely dry scholastic disquisitions. Father Warner had given two during his abode at the Castle: and both were concerning the duty of implicit obedience to the Church. Father Nicholas had preached about a dozen; some on the virtues--dreary classical essays; three concerning the angels; and one (on a Good Friday) which was a series of fervent declamations on the Passion. But this time it was Bruno who preached; and on a very different topic from any mentioned above. His clear, ringing voice was in itself a much more interesting sound than Father Nicholas's drowsy monotone, or Father Warner's dry staccato. He at least was interested in his subject; no one could doubt that. As soon as the last note of the last chant had died away, Bruno came forward to the steps of the altar. He had given due notice of his intention beforehand, and every one (with Beatrice in particular) was prepared to listen to him. The text itself--to hearers unfamiliar with the letter of Scripture--was rather a startling one. "`O all ye that pass by the way, hearken and see if there be sorrow like unto my sorrow, wherewith the Lord hath trodden me as in the wine-press, in the day of the wrath of His anger.'" Margaret looked up quickly. This seemed to her the very language of her own heart. She at least was likely to be attentive.