What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such surprise? Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known, and perchance much loved, family, whom they have never seen before, and felt struck by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien of the stranger? She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course knew him not, only she wondered whether this were the “brother” of whom Hubert had spoken. “I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him,” she said sadly. “Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?” _Quam bonus es petentibus Sed quid invenientibus_ {27}! “How may I find Him? I seek Him on the right hand and He is not there, and on the left and He is not to be found. Oh, tell me all about Him, and how I may find rest in that Love!” And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with Divine Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the heart of another. After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady added: “Dost thou not know my nephew Hubert? Art thou not his friend Martin?” “I am, indeed. Tell me, hast thou yet heard aught of my brother Hubert?” “Nought! I might say naught, so sad are the tidings a wandering palmer brought us,” and she told him the story of Charybdis. “Lady,” he said, “I hope better things. Nay, I am persuaded his race is not yet run, and that I shall yet see him again in the flesh; weaned by much affliction from some earthly dross which yet encrusts his loving nature.” “What reason hast thou to give?” “Only a conviction borne upon me.” “Wilt thou not return with me?” “I may not. I have a mission at Mayfield, whither I am bound.” “But thou wilt come soon?” “On Sunday, if I may, I will preach in the chapel of thy castle.” Need we add how eagerly the offer was accepted? So they parted for the time. It was a day of wondrous beauty, the first Sunday in July that year. Sweet day, so calm, so fine, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky. The little chapel was full at the usual hour for the Sunday morning service, which, with our forefathers, was nine o’clock, the hour hallowed by the descent of the Comforter on the day of Pentecost. The chaplain said mass. After the creed Martin preached, and his discourse was from the epistle for the day, which was the fourth Sunday after Trinity. “Ah,” he said, “this day is indeed beauteous, as were the days in Eden. It is a delight to live and move. There is joy in the very air; yet beneath all lies the mystery of pain and suffering.