Aunt Dorothy, Aunt Gretel, and I, went, at his summons, into my Father's justice-room. "Where two or three are gathered together," said he; and without further preamble we all knelt down while he prayed, in a few words and quiet (to the ear). For he seemed to feel the great, loving, omnipotent Presence; not far off, where cries only could reach, but near, close, overshadowing, indwelling, too near almost for speech. And we felt the same. When he ceased, it was some minutes before we rose. And the silence fell on me like an answer like an "Amen," like one of those "Verilys" which shine through so many of the Gospel words, and illumine them so that they may read in the dark; in the dark when we most need them. Before we left, I told him of Lady Lucy and Lettice praying the Collects for Roger in her oratory. My Father turned away with trembling lips to the window. Aunt Gretel sobbed, Aunt Dorothy said, with a faint voice,-- "God forgive me if I said anything of Lady Lucy I should not have said." We had not left the room when Lettice's white palfry flashed past the door, and in another moment she had met us in the porch. "Sir Launcelot will live!" she said. "The physician says there is every hope; and he sleeps. If he wakes better, all will be right; and Roger waits to see, because he still fears. But I am sure all will be well. And I could not bear you should wait; so my mother let me come." In his thankfulness my Father forgot the stately courtesy with which he usually treated Lettice, and stooping down, took her in his arms, as if she had been me, and kissed and blessed her, and called her "God's sweet messenger and dove of hope!" and prayed she might be so all her life. And Aunt Gretel disappeared to tell every one. But Aunt Dorothy stood still where she was, and covered her face with her hands and wept unrestrainedly in a way most uncommon with her. Lettice, with her own sweet instinct when to come and when to go, was on the steps by the door in a moment (anticipating her groom's ready hand), on her white pony, waving her hand to us as we watched her in the porch, and away out of sight, escaping our thanks, and leaving us to our hope. Slowly the dispersed household, who had all been invisibly bound to the centre they nevertheless would not approach, gathered in the hall from stall, and shed, and field. And then my Father said,-- "Friends, God has given us hope. Therefore let us pray." And for a few minutes we all knelt together while he prayed, in brief trustful words, ending with the Lord's Prayer, in which all the voices joined, at least all that could, for there were many tears. Then my Father read Luther's Psalm, "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in time of trouble."