The letter would have found her at Wastbeach instead of London, had not the society and instructions of the schoolmaster detained her a willing prisoner to its heat and glare and dust. Him only in all London must she see to bid good-bye. To Camden Town therefore she went that same evening, when his work would be over for the day. As usual now, she was shown into his room--his only one. As usual also, she found him poring over his Greek Testament. The gracious, graceful woman looked lovelily strange in that mean chamber--like an opal in a brass ring. There was no such contrast between the room and its occupant. His bodily presence was too weak to “stick fiery off” from its surroundings, and to the eye that saw through the bodily presence to the inherent grandeur, that grandeur suggested no discrepancy, being of the kind that lifts everything to its own level, casts the mantle of its own radiance around its surroundings. Still to the eye of love and reverence it was not pleasant to see him in such _entourage_, and now that Clementina was going to leave him, the ministering spirit that dwelt in the woman was troubled. “Ah!” he said, and rose as she entered; “this is then the angel of my deliverance!” But with such a smile he did not look as if he had much to be delivered from. “You see,” he went on, “old man as I am, and peaceful, the summer will lay hold upon me. She stretches out a long arm into this desert of houses and stones, and sets me longing after the green fields and the living air--it seems dead here--and the face of God--as much as one may behold of the Infinite through the revealing veil of earth and sky and sea. Shall I confess my weakness, my poverty of spirit, my covetousness after the visual? I was even getting a little tired of that glorious God-and-man-lover, Saul of Tarsus--no, not of him, never of _him_, only of his shadow in his words. Yet perhaps--yes, I think so--it is God alone of whom a man can never get tired. Well, no matter; tired I was; when lo! here comes my pupil, with more of God in her face than all the worlds and their skies he ever made!” “I would my heart were as full of him, too, then, sir!” answered Clementina. “But if I am anything of a comfort to you, I am more than glad,--therefore the more sorry to tell you that I am going to leave you--though for a little while only, I trust.” “You do not take me by surprise, my lady. I have of course been looking forward for some time to my loss and your gain. The world is full of little deaths--deaths of all sorts and sizes, rather let me say. For this one I was prepared. The good summer land calls you to its bosom, and you must go.” “Come with me,” cried Clementina, her eyes eager with the light of the sudden thought, while her heart reproached her grievously that only now first had it come to her.