“I can show you another memorial which is almost as beautiful,” she said. “In this case, however, what it stands for is at least authentic. A famous artist designed it.” The girl turned and gazed backwards along the shafts of light that pierced the dusky nave until her eyes caught the gleam of the gilded Gloria high up the dimness, above the west window. Then they rested with awed admiration on the face of a great winged angel stooping with outstretched hand. She drew in her breath with a little sigh of appreciation which warmed Violet’s heart to her, and then glancing down from the flaming picture read: “To the glory of God, and in memory of Walthew Palliser, killed in the execution of his duty in West Africa.” “Yes,” she said, “it’s beautiful. But they should be together. The great compassionate angel over the effigy. It makes you feel the words, ‘Well done!’” Violet smiled gravely, “I think I understand, and one could fancy that they were spoken. The man to whom they raised that window went, unarmed, sick of fever, and knowing the risk he ran, to make peace with a rebellious tribe, because it was evident that it would provoke hostilities if he took troops with him. He found a stockade on the way, and, though his bearers tried to hinder him, went forward alone to parley. He was shot almost to pieces with ragged cast iron.” “He was splendid,” said the stranger. “And his name was Walthew—it is a curious one. I must thank you for telling me the story.” She would apparently have said more, but that a girl in light dress and big white hat came in through a little door behind the organ, and laughed as she approached them. “So you have been making friends with Nettie, Violet! I was going to bring her over one of these days,” she said. “Netting Harding of Glenwood on the Hudson—Violet Wayne! Nettie is staying with me, and as she is enthusiastic over antiquities I was bringing her here when Mrs. Vicar buttonholed me. They are short of funds for the Darsley sewing guild again. Will you come over to‐morrow afternoon? Tea on the lawn.” Violet promised and took her departure, while when the other two went out into the sunshine again Nettie Harding’s companion glanced at her. “How did Violet Wayne strike you,—which I think is how you would put it?” she said. Nettie appeared reflective. “I think I should like her. The curious thing is that a friend of mine pictured her to me almost exactly, though he did not tell me who she was. Still, at first I fancied she meant me to feel my inferiority.” “That is a thing Violet Wayne would never do,” said her companion. “I don’t know where she got that repose of hers—but it’s part of her, and she doesn’t put it on. Who was the man who spoke about her?”