IN SPITE OF ALL A Novel By Edna Lyall London: Hurst And Blackett, Limited 1901 TO MY BROTHER R. BURGES BAYLY (Vicar of Bosbury) AND TO MY FRIENDS and Mrs. A. S. HOMEWOOD IN MEMORY OF JANUARY AND FEBRUARY, 1900. “When ae door steeks, anither opens.” IN SPITE OF ALL. CHAPTER I. Many loved Truth, and lavished life’s best oil Amid the dusk of books to find her. But these our brothers fought for her, At life’s dear peril wrought for her, So loved her that they died for her, Tasting the raptured fleetness Of her divine completeness: Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true, And what they dare to dream of dare to do. They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find-- Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind, But beautiful with danger’s sweetness round her, Where faith made whole with deed Breathes its awakening breath Into the lifeless creed; They saw her plumed and mailed, With sweet, stem face unveiled, And all-repaying eyes look proud on them in death. --Lowell. There had been a heavy fall of snow in Hereford during the night, but the south walk in Dr. Harford’s garden had been swept, and the still, frosty air and mid-day sunshine made the place as pleasant a playground as could be wished. The merry voices of a boy and girl had rung for the last half-hour in the pleasance, and the joys of snowballing were far too keen to allow the little couple to notice even for a moment the beauty of the wintry scene, with the rime-covered trees and bushes bordering the river, and in the background the cathedral, its massive tower surmounted in those seventeenth century days by a lofty spire covered with lead which glittered in the bright sunshine. Presently the two playmates grew tired of snowballing and retired to a little arbour, commonly called the sun-trap, for here on the coldest days warmth could generally be found. There was a lull in the merry sounds, but it was only the calm which precedes a storm, for before long came a vehement expostulation, “Gabriel! Gabriel! let me have it. I _will_ have it.” “Not till you have promised,” was the teasing retort, and from the arbour there sprang out a small boy, with the most winsome and mischievous face, his hazel eyes sparkling with elfish mirth, while he held high above his head a wooden puppet, as dear to its small owner as the loveliest of modern dolls. The bereft mother refused to enter into the game; it might be sport to him, but it was death to her. “I won’t promise!” she said, angrily. “Give me my babe.”