Lottie let go her hold of the Captain’s arm. She wanted no support now. She wanted nothing but to go on, to tell all that divine story from end to end. It got possession of her. She did not remember even the changes of the voices; the end of one strain and another was nothing to her. She sang through the whole of the songs that follow each other without a pause or a falter. And like her, without questioning, without hesitation, the Signor played on. It was not till she had proclaimed into the gloom that “His yoke is easy and His burden light” that she came to herself. The last chords thrilled and vibrated through the great arches and died away in lingering echoes in the vast gloom of the roof. And then there was a pause. Lottie came to herself. She was not overwhelmed and exhausted by the effort, as she had been at the Deanery. She felt herself come down, as out of heaven, and slowly became aware of Captain Temple looking at her with a disturbed countenance, and old Wykeham in all the agitation of alarm. “If I’d have known I’d never have let you in. It’s as much as my place is worth,” the old man was saying; and Captain Temple, very kindly and fatherly, but troubled too, and by no means happy, gave her his arm hurriedly. “I think we had better go, my dear,” he said; “I think we had better go.” Some one stopped them at the door--some one who took her hand in his with a warmth which enthusiasm permitted. “I knew it must be you, if it were not one of the angels,” he said; “one or the other. I have just come; and what a welcome I have had--too good for a king!” “I did not know you were here, Mr. Ridsdale,” said Lottie, faintly, holding fast by Captain Temple’s arm. “But I knew you were here; it was in the air,” he said, half-whispering. “Good-night; but good-night lasts only till to-morrow, thank heaven.” CHAPTER XXV. WHAT FOLLOWED.