‘can be so potent as the memory of a saintly life now veiled in heaven?’ Gerald folded the letter again. It had done for him what the funeral service had not done. It had touched the fountain-springs of his heart. He wept. An hour--two hours--three hours passed away, and then the butler knocked again, bringing him some food. He opened the door and took it in. ‘Mr. Henry thought you would like it best here, sir,’ said the butler. Gerald placed it on the table. He tasted it, but could not eat it. A little later, perhaps in consequence of something that the butler had said, Harry himself entered the room. He made the excuse of bringing him some verses which had been found lying in his sister’s room with the inscription, ‘For dear Gerald on Good Friday.’ Gerald remembered that they had been talking, when he was last at Helmsbury, about the Divine Passion to which that day is sacred. Whether the verses were her own or another’s did not appear; probably another’s, but it has not proved possible to trace them. Gethsemane, Gethsemane, My spirit yearneth to be free From sin and shame at thought of thee. There did the Saviour’s blood-sweat rain In agony of mortal pain Upon thy soil--oh! not in vain. Friendship’s default, the lying kiss, The serried spite of enemies, This was His soul’s experience, this. Gethsemane, Gethsemane, Oh! that thou wouldst reveal to me That which thine olives once did see! And what in that fierce strife with hell He suffered none may dare to tell, But the Lord God remembereth well. For in that solemn hour He bore The sins of all that sinned before Or shall sin till sin be no more. Gethsemane, Gethsemane, From thy deep shades of silence He Passed to His death upon the tree. He died--and all the angelic eyes Looked in adoring strong surprise On that eternal sacrifice; And He who sits upon the throne Declared the deed divinely done, And God and man for ever one.