One compensation had been given her. She had helped the man she loved. She had made him forget the bitter memories of his childhood; she had rejoiced at his success, and mourned with him in pain; she had reinstated him in the eyes of the world he loved, and made it possible that he should leave behind an honoured name. Only one thing was wanting.... But suddenly a vision formed; her life was full of visions now—she could not tell reality from dreams. She saw the open door of a little church on the hillside, far away in a distant land, but full of the presence of God. She saw the light of faith issue from it in a visible stream, pouring like a mountain torrent down the hillside, giving life to flowers which sprung up on the way. Up the steep hill a traveller came; he moved faintly and wearily, the light had gone from his eyes; she recognized him. Slowly Farquharson came to the door, there to stand blinded in the transfiguring light shed from the jewelled monstrance high upon its throne. And a man came forward, a man with outstretched hands, whose look was very welcoming—Cummings. She heard his voice ring out with a great gladness: "This is what she wished; it was for this that she laid down her life...." Now she was nearing her goal—had come, indeed, almost within range of Monserrato’s message. But there was Barcelona to go through first; that wild hell of intrigue and rebellion, the threshold of unbelief. Its noise, its tumult, its gaiety, its dissipation, lay visibly before her as the train crept slowly in, on its long pause in the station. She got out wearily—it was strange how her limbs had dragged these last few days—and took her breakfast in the little _fonda_. She sat there motionless, watching the hurrying cosmopolitan crowd of passengers go swiftly to and fro. Barcelona harbours the refuse of many nations, and of itself breeds anarchy and terror. But on beyond—not very far the great pinnacles of Monserrato were raised high in the heavens. Barcelona might lie and cheat and steal and vomit infamy; nothing could break the force of those eternal hills beyond, and nothing sully them. She had still a journey of three hours before her. The train came at last and she got in. This was not the season for tourists; in all probability she would be alone in the convent. She knew what she had to expect: a bare room, with its plain bed and chair, a crucifix upon the wall, the mere necessities of life—more, after all, than had been offered to the Mother of God at Bethlehem. It seemed to her as she approached the little station that she caught an echo of faint Gregorian music, the only music that such mountains could give back. It rang like a distant chant. Sometimes she seemed to catch a word or two, a kind of _Nunc dimittis_, the song of the soul from which all earthly trappings had fallen away, which was setting out, weary and travel-stained, on its last journey.