Her work was so much more to her than ordinary work paid for in ordinary coin. Into these gorgeous altar-cloths, or these delicate wrappings for chalice and paten, she stitched her heart. To work at them was prayer. Jesus, and His Mother, and the Saints; it was with them she communed as her stitches flowed. She sat in a mystic, a heavenly world. And the silence and solitude of her work made one of its chief charms. And now to be asked to share it with a strange girl, who could not love it as she did, who would take it as hard business--never to be alone any more with her little black book and her prayers! And then she looked up, and met a young man's half-offended look, and a shy, proud eye, in which the nascent friendship of five minutes before seemed to be sinking out of sight. 'Oh yes, I will,' she cried. 'Of course I will. It just sounded a bit strange to me at first. I've been so used to be alone always.' But he demurred now--wished stiffly to take back his proposal. He did not want to put upon her, and perhaps, after all, Louie would have her own notions. But she could not bear it, and as he retreated she pressed forward. Of course there was work. And it would be very good for her, it would stir her up to take a pupil; it was just her old-maidish ways--it had startled her a bit at first. And then, her reserve giving ay more and more as her emotion grew, she confessed herself at last completely. 'You see, it's not just _work_ to me, and it's not the money, though I'm glad enough for that; but it's for the church; and I'd live on a crust, and do it for nothing, if I could!' She looked up at him--that ardent dream-life of hers leaping to the eyes, transforming the pale face. David sat silent and embarrassed. He did not know what to say--how to deal with this turn in the conversation. 'Oh, I know you think I'm just foolish,' she said, sadly, taking up her needle. 'You always did; but I'll take your sister--indeed I will.' 'Perhaps you'll turn her your way of thinking,' said David, with a little awkward laugh, looking round for his hat. 'But Louie isn't an easy one to drive.' 'Oh, you can't drive people!' cried Dora, flushing; 'you can't, and you oughtn't. But if Father Russell talked to her she might like him--and the church. Oh, Mr. Grieve, won't you go one Sunday and hear him--won't you--instead of--' She did not finish her sentence, but David finished it for her: 'Instead of going to the Hall of Science? Well, but you know, Miss Dora, I being what I am, I get more good out of a lecture at the Hall of Science than I should out of Father Russell. I should be quarrelling with him all the time, and wanting to answer him.' 'Oh, you couldn't,' said Dora eagerly, 'he's so good, and he's a learned man--I'm sure he is. Mr. Foss, the curate, told me they think he'll be a bishop some day.'