Thus, as he thought, his eyes wandered down the Temple aisles to the choirs, and in his reverie he became aware of the presence of St Armand, also some others, men and women, whom he knew; and as his wandering eye scanned the groups of worshippers, he became aware in that front pew of the little beggar girl he had seen twice lately, sitting alone. Almost unconsciously he fixed his eyes upon her, wondering idly why she, in rags, had presumed upon so prominent a seat. And at last she looked up from the book she was holding--right across the choir-stalls and attendant clergy towards the High Priest’s throne, and, seeing him looking back at her, like a child who considers pleasantness the acme of good manners, she smiled. It was a smile purely friendly, a little shy, and greatly serious; it gave a sweet and winsome expression to a face quite sweet enough before. Alphonso, it is needless to inform you, did not smile back. He looked away for a little time, and even went so far as to examine well the ceiling; the morning’s conversation had completely died from his mind. Yet he did look back again, and from curiosity alone, when they were kneeling. Her face was buried in her hands--only the gleam of golden hair under the old straw hat, and the slope of a graceful shoulder. Once more during the anthem their eyes met again, but this time she did not smile. “Very sensible of her,” thought the High Priest, and gave his attention to the service, for the moment only. Yet it was nothing more than a professional interest that he began to take in her. Had he not promised to try to raise her from the beggar state? and how soon had he forgotten! Had she not come to the Temple that evening, he would have remembered her no more. She was a pretty girl with a sweet face; he must see what he could do. Having some business to attend to after the service, it was rather later when he left the Temple. St Armand had gone home, and he and his Chaplain came out together alone as the dusk was settling. And suddenly a great longing for freedom came over him. Why could he not walk the streets unmolested by attendants, as St Armand did? It seemed to him, standing there on that top step looking out on to the busy, restless city, that could he once break through the trammels of his hard-set life, he might regain the power of youthful feeling--the thing he had lost, and only lately felt. He had no particular work that evening, he remembered--nothing till nine o’clock, and dinner was at eight. “Eaglestone,” he said, as they went down the steps together, “you will drive back to the Palace alone--I am walking. There are some matters I wish to think about; I shall be home soon after you arrive.” He watched the carriage drive away, and then himself set out in the approaching darkness.