If Daunt were to fall ... what would it mean to her! In that instant the garden about her, Thorn, the blue sky above, faded, and she stared dismayed into a gulf in whose shadows lurked the disastrous, the terrifying, the irreparable. "I love him! I love him!"--it seemed to peal like a temple-bell through her brain. Even to herself she could never deny it again! She became aware of music near at hand. It brought her back to the present, for it was the sound of the organ in the new Chapel across the way. Looking up, she was struck by the expression on Thorn's face. He seemed, listening, to be held captive by some dire recollection. It brought to her mind that bitter cry: "I can not but remember such things were, That were most precious to me!" She rose with a sudden swelling of the throat. "I must go now," she said. "The Chapel is to be dedicated this morning. The organ is playing for the service now." She led the way along the stepping-stones to the bamboo gate. As they approached, through the interstices of the farther hedge she could see the figure of the Ambassador, with Mrs. Dandridge, among the _kimono_ entering the chapel door. In the temple across the yard the baton had begun its tapping and the dulled, monotonous tom-tom mingled weirdly with the soaring harmonies of the organ. With her hand on the paling she spoke again: "One thing I didn't tell you. It was I who built the Chapel. It is in the memory of my father. See, there is the memorial window. They were putting it in place when I came a little while ago." She was not looking at Thorn, or she would have seen his face overspread with a whiteness like that of death. He stood as if frozen to marble. The morning sun on the Chapel's eastern side, striking through its open casements, lighted the iridescent rose-window with a tender radiance, gilding the dull yellow aureole about the head of the Master and giving life and glow to the face beside Him--dark, beardless, and passionately tender--at which Thorn was staring, with what seemed almost an agony of inquiry. "St. John," she said softly, "'the disciple whom Jesus loved.'" She drew from the bosom of her dress the locket she always wore and opened it. "The face was painted from this--the only picture I have of my father." His hand twitched as he took it. He looked at it long and earnestly--at the name carved on its lid. "Barbara--Barbara Fairfax!" he said. She thought his lips shook under the gray mustache. "You--are a Buddhist, are you not?" she asked. "And Buddhists believe the spirits of the dead are always about us. Do you think--perhaps--he sees the Chapel?" He put her locket into her hands hastily. "God!" he said, as if to himself. "He will see it through a hundred existences!" Her eyes were moist and shining. "I am glad you think that," she said. In the Chapel the bishop's gaze kindled as it went out over the kneeling people.