“The old church didn’t lead you into any harm then,” I answered. “The beauty that is in the heart will shine out of the face again some day--be sure of that. And after all, there is just the same kind of beauty in a good old face that there is in an old church. You can’t say the church is so trim and neat as it was the day that the first blast of the organ filled it as with, a living soul. The carving is not quite so sharp, the timbers are not quite so clean. There is a good deal of mould and worm-eating and cobwebs about the old place. Yet both you and I think it more beautiful now than it was then. Well, I believe it is, as nearly as possible, the same with an old face. It has got stained, and weather-beaten, and worn; but if the organ of truth has been playing on inside the temple of the Lord, which St. Paul says our bodies are, there is in the old face, though both form and complexion are gone, just the beauty of the music inside. The wrinkles and the brownness can’t spoil it. A light shines through it all--that of the indwelling spirit. I wish we all grew old like the old churches.” She did not reply, but I thought I saw in her face that she understood my mysticism. We had been walking very slowly, had passed through the quaint lych-gate, and now the old woman had got the key in the lock of the door, whose archway was figured and fashioned as I have described above, with a dozen mouldings or more, most of them “carved so curiously.” CHAPTER XV. THE OLD CHURCH.