"Then," said I, "there must have been choirs and church-bells in fairy-land, for there is surely something sad and sacred in the sound. It sounds to me like those bells the legends tell us of, buried beneath the sea, tolling up to us from far beneath the dark waters of the past." Then Lettice fastened back her long hair, and stooped down and drank of the crystal water, bathing her face as she drank. "Those Israelitish soldiers understood how to enjoy water," said she, rising from her draught. "That is delicious." For we were tired and thirsty with gathering lapfuls of the blue-bells, of which the woods were full. As she stood, her moist parted lips, the rich glow on her cheeks, her eyes dancing with life, her arms full of flowers, she said,-- "It never seems enough to look at the beautiful world, Olive. I seem to want another sense for it. I want to drink of it like this spring; to take it to my heart, as I do these flowers. And I suppose that is why I delight to gather them, just as when I was a little child. Do you understand?" I did; but I thought of the inscription on the Lady Well. "I suppose we do want to get nearer, Lettice," I said; "we want to drink of the Fountain. We want to rest on the Heart." "Do you think that is what this strange unsatisfied longing means," said she, "which all great joys and all very beautiful things give me?" For a few moments she was silent. Then she said,-- "What life there is everywhere! Everything seems filled too full of joy, and brimming over--the birds into songs, the fields into flowers, and the trees into leaves, the oldest and gayest of them. And I feel just like them all, Olive. On such a morning one must love every one and everything, altogether regardless of their being lovable, just for the sake of loving. Olive," she added, with one of her sudden turns of thought, "to-day you must forgive Sir Launcelot from the very bottom of your heart, once for all." "Oh, Lettice," said I, "I do forgive him, I really think I did, long since; at least for everything but his forgiving Roger in that gracious way, as if Roger had nothing to forgive him. I have forgiven him, but I cannot think him good." "Ungenerous!" said she, half in jest and half in earnest; "you ought to think every one good on such a morning as this. Besides, Sir Launcelot always speaks so kindly and generously of you: he says you are goodness itself." "I cannot think what is not true, just because the sun shines and the birds sing," said I, "and I certainly cannot think any one good because they call me good, or goodness itself. How _can_ I, Lettice? How can I believe a thing because I wish to believe it?"