Looking up at this moment, she saw Julian Adderley in the aisle on her left-hand side,--he too was staring at Walden as though he saw the figure of a saint in a vision. But Maryllia kept her face hidden, listening in a kind of awe, as each 'Commandment' was, as it seemed, grandly and strenuously insisted upon by the clear voice that had no tone of hypocrisy in its whole scale. "Thou shalt NOT bear false witness against thy neighbour!" Lady Beaulyon forgot to droop her head in the usual studied way which she knew was so becoming to her,--the NOT was so emphatic. An unpleasant shiver ran through her daintily-clothed person,--dear me!--how often and often she had 'borne false witness,' not only against her neighbour, but against everyone she could think of or talk about! Where could be the fun of living if you must NOT swear to as many lies about your neighbour as possible? No spice or savour would be left in the delicate ragout of 'swagger' society! The minister of St. Rest was really quite objectionable,--a ranter,--a noisy, 'stagey' creature!--and both she and Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay murmured to each other that they 'did not like him.' "So loud!" said Lady Beaulyon, breathing the words delicately against her friend's Titian-red hair. "So provincial!" rejoined Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay, in the same dulcet undertone, adding to her remark the fervent--"Lord have mercy upon us and incline our hearts to keep this law!" One very gratifying circumstance to these ladies, however, and one that considerably astonished all the members of Miss Vancourt's house-party, as well as Miss Vancourt herself, was that no 'collection' was made. Neither the church, the poor, nor some distant mission to the heathen served as any excuse for begging, in the shrine of the 'Saint's Rest.' No vestige of a money-box or 'plate' was to be seen anywhere. And this fact pre-disposed them to survey Walden's face and figure with critical attention as he left the chancel and ascended the pulpit during the singing of 'The Lord is my Shepherd.' At the opening chords of that quaint and simple hymn, Cicely Bourne glanced at Miss Eden and Susie Prescott with a little suggestive smile, and caught their appealing glances,--then, as the quavering chorus of boys and girls began, she raised her voice as the 'leading soprano,' and like a thread of gold it twined round all the notes and tied them together in clear and lovely unison: "The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want, He maketh me down to lie, In pleasant fields where the lilies grow, And the river runneth by." Everyone in the congregation stared and seemed stricken with sudden wonderment. Such singing they had never heard before. Mrs. Bludlip Courtenay put up her lorgnon. "It's Maryllia Vancourt's creature,"--she whispered--"The ugly child she picked up in Paris. I suppose it really IS a voice?"