No one answered Helen’s knock. She repeated it, and still no answer came. Her heart might have failed her, but that she heard voices: what if they were talking about Leopold? At length, after knocking four or five times, she heard the step as of a child coming down a stair; but it passed the door. Clearly no one had heard her. She knocked yet again, and immediately it was opened by Rachel. The pleasured surprise that shone up in her face when she saw who it was that stood without, was lovely to see, and Helen, on whose miserable isolation it came like a sunrise of humanity, took no counsel with pride, but, in simple gratitude for the voiceless yet eloquent welcome, bent down and kissed her. The little arms were flung about her neck, and the kiss returned with such a gentle warmth and restrained sweetness as would have satisfied the most fastidious in the matter of salute--to which class, however, Helen did not belong, for she seldom kissed anyone. Then Rachel took her by the hand, and led her into the kitchen, placed a chair for her near the fire, and said, “I AM sorry there is no fire in the parlour. The gentlemen are in my uncle’s room. Oh, Miss Lingard, I do wish you could have heard how they have been talking!” “Have they been saying anything about my brother?” asked Helen. “It’s all about him,” she replied. “May I ask who the gentlemen are?” said Helen doubtfully. “Mr. Wingfold and Mr. Drew. They are often here.” “Is it--do you mean Mr. Drew, the draper?” “Yes. He is one of Mr. Wingfold’s best pupils. He brought him to my uncle, and he has come often ever since.” “I never heard that--Mr. Wingfold--took pupils.--I am afraid I do not quite understand you. “I would have said DISCIPLES,” returned Rachel smiling; “but that has grown to feel such a sacred word--as if it belonged only to the Master, that I didn’t like to use it. It would say best what I mean though; for there are people in Glaston that are actually mending their ways because of Mr. Wingfold’s teaching, and Mr. Drew was the first of them. It is long since such a thing was heard of in the Abbey. It never was in my time.” Helen sighed. She wished it had remained possible for her also to become one of Mr. Wingfold’s pupils, but how could she now when she had learned that what he had to teach was at best but a lovely phantasm, sprung of the seething together of the conscience and imagination. George could give account of the whole matter: religion invariably excited the imagination and weakened the conscience;--witness the innumerable tales concerning Jesus invented in the first of the Christian centuries, and about this and that saint in those that followed! Helen’s experience in Leopold’s case had certainly been different, but the other fact remained. Alas, she could not be a pupil of Mr. Wingfold! She could no longer deceive herself with such comfort. And yet!--COME UNTO ME, AND _I_ WILL GIVE YOU REST. “I do wish I could hear them,” she said.