"Exactly," said Mr. Longford; "I imagine you may be right, Mr. Walden; it is evidently a relic of the very earliest phases of the Christian myth." As he spoke the last words Walden looked straightly at him. A fine smile hovered on his lips. "It is as you say," he rejoined calmly--"It is a visible token of the time when men believed in an Unseen Force more potent than themselves." The Duke of Lumpton coughed noisily again, and his friend, Lord Mawdenham, who up to the present had occupied the time in staring vaguely about him and anxiously feeling his pimples, said hurriedly: "Oh, look here, Sir Morton--er--I say,--er--hadn't we better be going? There's Lady Elizabeth Messing coming to lunch and you know she can't bear to be kept waiting-never do, you know, not to be there to see her when she arrives--he-he-he! We should never get over it in London or out of London--'pon my life!--I do assure you!" Sir Morton's chest swelled;--his starched collar crackled round his expanding throat, and his voice became richly resonant as under the influential suggestion of another 'titled' personage, he replied: "Indeed, you are right, my dear Lord Mawdenham! To keep Lady Elizabeth waiting would be an unpardonable offence against all the proprieties! Hum--ha--er--yes!--against all the proprieties! Mr. Walden, we must go! Lady Elizabeth Messing is coming to lunch with us at Badsworth. You have no doubt heard of her--eldest daughter of the Earl of Charrington!--yes, we must really be going! I think I may say, may I not, your Grace?"--here he bent towards the ducal Lumpton--"that we are all highly pleased with the way in which Mr. Waldon has effected the restoration of the church?" "Oh, I don't know anything at all about it!" replied His Grace, with the air of a sporting groom; "I've no taste at all in churches, and I'm not taking any on old coffins! It's a nice little chapel--just enough for a small village I should say. After all, don't-cher-know, you only want very little accommodation for a couple of hundred yokels; and whether it's old or new architecture doesn't matter to 'em a brass farthing!" These observations were made with a rambling air of vague self- assertiveness which the speaker evidently fancied would pass for wit and wisdom. Walden said nothing. His brow was placid, and his countenance altogether peaceful. He was listening to the solemnly sweet flow of a Bach prelude which Miss Eden was skilfully unravelling on the organ, the notes rising and falling, and anon soaring up again like prayerful words striving to carry themselves to heaven.