Yet the yellow lights in a yellow fog, the perfect organ, trained voices, rich embroideries, incense, genuflexions, all these seemed at one religious pole; and Long Stow church on a summer's day, with the sky above and the birds singing, and Mr. Carlton in his surplice in the sun, surely that was at the other! It was Gwynneth's fate, at all events, to carry that single service in her heart and mind for ever, and to put every other one against it. She did so now, involuntarily at first, and then unwillingly, as she knelt or stood at the end of her row--her cambric cuffs and fine lawn streamers in high relief against the rich furs and the sombre feathers of those about her. On the other side of the nave, far back and close to the wall, a grizzled gentleman stood and knelt by turns, in much obscurity; and his attention never flagged. No detail of the elaborate ritual appeared unfamiliar to this worshipper, and yet for a time his expression was rather that of the alien critic. Gradually, however, the lines disappeared from his forehead, his eyes opened wider, and brightened with the peaceful ardour which he himself had already remarked in the eyes of others. He was a tall thin man, very weather-beaten and rather bent, wearing a new overcoat and a soft muffler; there was nothing in his appearance to declare him of the cloth himself. His grey beard was close trimmed. He wore gloves and carried a tall hat shoulder high in the press going out. He was no more readily recognisable as the lonely builder of Long Stow church, than Gwynneth in her nurse's garb as the niece of Sir Wilton Gleed. But their separate fates brought them face to face in the porch, and recognition was immediate on both sides. "Miss Gleed?" said Robert Carlton, raising his hat before it covered his grey hairs. "Mr. Carlton!" she exclaimed in turn. There had been no time to think, and her voice told only of her surprise; her own ear noticed it, and she had time to marvel at herself. "I thought I could not be mistaken," Carlton was saying. And they were shaking hands. "I never expected to see you here," said Gwynneth, with a strange emphasis, as though the declaration were due to herself. "I never thought of coming until an hour or two ago." No more had Gwynneth: then the miracle was twofold. Her heart gave thanks. It was not afraid. Meanwhile the crowd was carrying them gently, insensibly, but side by side, across the flagged yard to the gate. "It's the first Sunday I've spent in town for years," observed Carlton; "you are here altogether, I believe?" "Well, for some years, at least. I am learning to be a nurse." And Gwynneth blushed for her conspicuous attire, just as Carlton gave a downward glance at the quaint cap on a level with his shoulder. "So I heard," he said. "May I ask which hospital you are at?" He could recall none where the uniform was so picturesque. "You would not know it, Mr. Carlton; it is a private hospital on Campden Hill."