A fortnight had gone by, and during this time Morris was a frequent visitor at Seaview. Also his Cousin Mary had come over twice or thrice to lunch, with her father or without him. Once, indeed, she had stopped all the afternoon, spending most of it in the workshop with Morris. This workshop, it may be remembered, was the old chapel of the Abbey, a very beautiful and still perfect building, finished in early Tudor times, in which, by good fortune, the rich stained glass of the east window still remained. It made a noble and spacious laboratory, with its wide nave and lovely roof of chestnut wood, whereof the corbels were seraphs, white-robed and golden-winged. “Are you not afraid to desecrate such a place with your horrid vices—I mean the iron things—and furnace and litter?” asked Mary. She had sunk down upon an anvil, on which lay a newspaper, the first seat that she could find, and thence surveyed the strange, incongruous scene. “Well, if you ask, I don’t like it,” answered Morris. “But there is no other place that I can have, for my father is afraid of the forge in the house, and I can’t afford to build a workshop outside.” “It ought to be restored,” said Mary, “with a beautiful organ in a carved case and a lovely alabaster altar and one of those perpetual lamps of silver—the French call them ‘veilleuses’, don’t they?—and the Stations of the Cross in carved oak, and all the rest of it.” Mary, it may be explained, had a tendency to admire the outward adornments of ritualism if not its doctrines. “Quite so,” answered Morris, smiling. “When I have from five to seven thousand to spare I will set about the job, and hire a high-church chaplain with a fine voice to come and say Mass for your benefit. By the way, would you like a confessional also? You omitted it from the list.” “I think not. Besides, what on earth should I confess, except being always late for prayers through oversleeping myself in the morning, and general uselessness?” “Oh, I daresay you might find something if you tried,” suggested Morris. “Speak for yourself, please, Morris. To begin with your own account, there is the crime of sacrilege in using a chapel as a workshop. Look, those are all tombstones of abbots and other holy people, and under each tombstone one of them is asleep. Yet there you are, using strong language and whistling and making a horrible noise with hammers just above their heads. I wonder they don’t haunt you; I would if I were they.” “Perhaps they do,” said Morris, “only I don’t see them.” “Then they can’t be there.” “Why not? Because things are invisible and intangible it does not follow that they don’t exist, as I ought to know as much as anyone.” “Of course; but I am sure that if there were anything of that sort about you would soon be in touch with it. With me it is different; I could sleep sweetly with ghosts sitting on my bed in rows.” “Why do you say that—about me, I mean?” asked Morris, in a more earnest voice.