From that day the health and spirits of the Lady of Walderne sank into a state which gave great anxiety to her maidens and retainers; she was not indeed very old in years, but still no longer did she possess the elasticity of youth. All her thoughts were absorbed by religion. She heard mass daily, and went through all the formal routine the customs of her age prescribed; went occasionally to the shrine of Saint Dunstan at Mayfield, and to sundry holy wells, notably that one in the glen near Hastings, well known to modern holiday makers. But while she was thus striving to work out her own salvation she knew little of the vital power of religion. It was the mere formal fulfilment of duty, not the spontaneous offering of love; and her burdened and anxious spirit never found rest. Yet had she not herself built a chapel, and given nearly the half of her goods to the poor, like Zaccheus of old? While, unlike him, she had never wronged any to whom she might restore fourfold. Well, like those of Cornelius, her prayers and alms had gone up before God and brought a Peter. About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she oft resorted. In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their summit behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by purple heather, was a dark deep pond: so black in the shade that its waters looked like ink. But it had all the resplendency of a mirror, and was indeed called “The mirror pond;” the upper sky, the branches of the trees, were so vividly reflected that any one who had a fancy for standing upon the head, on the brink of the pool, might have easily believed his posture was correct, and that he looked up into the azure void. At the north end of this sheltered and sequestered dell was a rustic seat, looking over the pond; and hard by was a large crucifix, life size, so that the devout might be stirred thereby to meditation. Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have now arrived—twelve hundred and sixty. And she sat and mused upon her dead husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the secret of true resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of suffering Love Incarnate. All at once she heard a voice singing: Love sets my heart on fire, Love of the Crucified: To Him my heart He drew, Whilst hanging on the tree, From whence He said to me, I am thy Shepherd true; I am thy Bridegroom new. The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion. And as she listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of Saint Francis came out upon the edge of the pond. She paused as they knelt before the rood. At length they rose, and approached the arbour wherein she sat. “Sister,” said the foremost one, “hast thou met Him of Nazareth? for I know He has been seeking thee!”