“Somewhere behind him over the parapet of the bridge there was a figure. I remember nothing about it except the face and the hands. The face was, I think, the tenderest I have ever seen. The eyes were downcast, looking upon the boy’s head with indescribable love, the lips were smiling. One hand was over the boy’s eyes, the other against his shoulder behind. In a moment the memory of other stories I had heard came to mind––and I gave a sob of relief that the boy was safe in such care. “But as the iron hoofs and rocking wheels came up, the hand on the boy’s shoulder suddenly pushed him to meet them; and yet those tender eyes and mouth never flinched, and the child took a step forward in front of the horse, and was beaten down without a cry: and the cart lurched heavily, righted itself, and dashed on out of sight. “When the cloud of dust had passed, the little body lay quiet on the road, and the two girls were clinging to one another, screaming and sobbing, but there was nothing else. “I was as angry at first as an old man could be. I nearly (may He forgive me for it now!) cursed God and died. But the memory of that tender face did its work. It was as the face of a mother who nurses her first-born child, as the face of a child who kisses a wounded creature, it was as I think the Father’s Face itself must have been, which those angels always behold, as He looked down upon the Sacrifice of His only Son. “Will you forgive me now if I seemed hard a few minutes ago? Perhaps you still think it was hardness that made me speak as I did. But, for myself, I hope I may call it by a better name than that.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In the Convent Chapel ------------------------------------------------------------------------ “In her all longings mix and meet; Dumb souls through her are eloquent; She feels the earth beneath her feet Vibrate in passionate intent; Through her our tides of feeling roll And find their God within her soul.” _The Contemplative Soul._ ------------------------------------------------------------------------ In the Convent Chapel ONE evening about this time, on coming indoors for tea, I found the old man seated at the open door that looked on to the lawn, with a book on his knees, and his finger between the pages. He held the book towards me as I came near him, and showed me the title, “The Interior Castle.”