She shook her head. “Oh, n-o,” she said. “Father Stephen said that you would make good use of them, and had earned them--but I think he knew quite well what you would say. Perhaps some day you will feel differently.” Dame Cicely of the Abbey Farm welcomed Josian in due time as a daughter. When she and Alan had been married about three months Josian was surveying a panel of just-completed embroidery in which all the colors in exquisite proportion blended in a gold-green jeweled arabesque. Alan came up behind her and caught the sunlight through it. He asked to borrow it, and reproduced the design in painted glass. That was the first window which he made for York Minster. Among the formulae in the scripts which were Josian's dowry were several for stained glass and the making of colors to be used therein. By means of one of these it became possible to make glass of wonderful rich hues, through which the light came white, as if no glass were there. This is one of the secrets known to the workers of the Middle Ages and now lost; but in old windows there still remain fragments of the glass. If to-day certain precious bits of glass, ruby-red, emerald-green, sapphire-blue, topaz-yellow, set in the windows of old cathedrals, could speak, they would say proudly that they are the work of Alan of York and Josian, the daughter of Archiater, the philosopher. NEW ALTARS I Publius Curtius, these many years dwelling Among these barbarians, a foe and a prefect, To Those whom they worship unreasoning, Gods of the Land, I raise this new altar. To Thee whom the wild hares in silence foregathering Worship with ears erect in the moonlight, (And vanish at sound of a footstep approaching) God of the Downs, I pour this libation. To Thee whom the trout in the rainbow foam drifting Behold in the sunlight through wet leafage sifting (And vanish like shadows of clouds in the water) God of the Streams, I pay this my tribute. To Thee whom the skylark, in rapture ascending Adores in his dithyramb perfect, unending, (And vanishes in the high heaven still singing) God of the Mist, I utter this prayer. To Ye whom my children, born here in my mansion, Reverence beyond the gods of their fathers, And love as they love their own mother, Gods of the Land, I build ye this temple! XII COLD HARBOR Wilfrid, the potter, stood with his wife and children, looking at what was left of a little old cottage. Fire had left it a heap of ashes and half-burned timbers and rubbish. The red roof-tiles glowed like embers of dead centuries. “I'd never ha' turned the old man out,” he said pensively, “but now he's gone and the cot's gone too, we'll see what's under this end of Cold Harbor.” Edwitha, his wife, looked up, her eyes sparkling through quick tears.