And he explained everything, whilst she listened most attentively; and the dim religious light suited her deep eyes and delicate ethereal face, as it suited all those saints and martyrs who carried golden sunbeams round their heads and were a credit to the great masters who had painted them. “These panels are Crockerby’s work,” said he, stopping before six full-length paintings of the greatest female saints. “You have heard of him?” “Oh yes, there are some of his pictures in the house where I am staying.” “This last one, the sixth, is considered one of his best works--some say the best. But, believe me, we almost had a quarrel over it.” “Why?” Marigold had gone up close to it, her cheeks flushed, her eyes alight. “Because it is the exact face and figure of a woman who was a mischief-maker--one who caused much ill-feeling at the time of the late High Priest’s death, and one who escaped the punishment that was justly hers.” “How?” “By running away with a Mr Barringcourt. You may have heard of him.” “Yes; what was her name?” “Rosalie Paileaf.” The shadows of the Temple hid Marigold’s face, its heaviness dulled the quick beating of her heart, for this was an exact copy of the face in Timothy’s bedroom. “You did not like her?” “I had every cause to dislike her. And he, knowing it might have shown himself a--a truer gentleman. Even now I never stand before it without irritation.” “Why--why not send it to this Mr Barringcourt if--if he was so infatuated?” “It would not be a bad idea. It has been consecrated; but still--his house is built after the cathedral style. I’ll think about it.” And, as he passed along, Marigold followed him. “I don’t think she has exactly the eyes for a Church--do you?” she asked at length. “Who?” “Rosalie--Rosalie, I forget her name.” “No, she should have been imprisoned for a lifetime, had the law been justified.” “Ah!” said Marigold softly, “then she would have looked more of a saint and less of a goddess. It is all very well to smile so when you’ve never felt any pain, and you love who loves you. I don’t like her a bit. She never suffered at all, and I am suffering every day.” But aloud she said: “Has he not flattered her?” “No, except the eyes. They were at times tragic and rather startling. Where he got that trumped-up expression from I can’t tell. I asked him to alter them and stick to the truth, but he wouldn’t--said he’d as soon cut off his head. Like an artist, everything ideal, nothing natural.” “But in the Church it is allowable.” “Well, yes, but the right kind of ideal.” And after this he found Marigold very quiet. But he did not object to it, for she went with him quite untiringly, and he felt the sympathy of her companionship, and liked her in this silent mood; for every one that came upon her suited her exactly as the one before.