In the evening a knock was heard at the chamber door, which she had all day refused to open, a note was pushed under the door, and a servant waited outside for her to read it. She rose wearily, lighted the gas, and glanced over the lines. “I am sorry you have headache, sorry for you and for me. Edith is talking with Mr. Rowan, and I am, consequently, _de trop_. There is no one I care to see to-night but you. Send me word if you are better.” “Tell him to wait,” she ordered, and, hastily dressing for a walk, went down. The front parlor was not lighted, but she saw him sitting by a window there. “Come out!” she said. “I wanted to go to the chapel, and you are just in time.” Scarcely a word was spoken as they went through the streets together. They entered the chapel, and turned aside into a shady corner. Carl sat, and his companion, too exhausted to kneel, sat beside him. In a room near by, a choir was singing that most beautiful of hymns-- “Jesus, lover of my soul.” “Alice,” Carl whispered, “that is enough to break one’s heart!” Her tears broke forth afresh. “No, Carl, it is enough to heal a heart already broken.” She listened, and looking toward the altar, repeated over and over, “Other refuge have I none.” The solitude and quiet were soothing to both--the sense of a divine presence more than soothing to her who had faith in it. They had not been there long when a gentleman came up the aisle with a firm, but light step, passed by without noticing them, and knelt down just before them. Carl sat and gazed at him in astonishment. That Dick Rowan should outwardly and publicly conform to the church, for Edith’s sake, was not surprising, but that he should come privately to the chapel to pray was inexplicable. Could it be that a brave, manly fellow like this could sincerely believe? Utterly unconscious of observation, the sailor knelt there motionless, with his face hidden in his hands, and when Carl’s companion whispered to him, and they both went out, that figure had not stirred. Edith Yorke’s friend began at once to show her what was notable in the city; but, as often happens, what they considered worth seeing disappointed the neophyte, and what they passed without notice she would fain have paused to look at. Inexperienced persons who have read much usually overestimate the magnitude of the wonders they have not seen. What young traveller, entering for the first time a city, ever found its houses as palatial, its streets as superb, its monuments as 23 grand, as fancy had pictured them?