With his companion he had paused at the entrance to the glade, so as to enjoy the beauty of the scene. Round the chapel swept the swallows, pigeons whirled aloft in the cloudless blue sky; from the leafy trees came the cooing of doves, and the cawing of rooks could be heard. All the wild life of the wood haunted the chapel, and the place was musical with forest minstrelsy. As the beauty of scene and sound crept into their hearts, the vicar quoted Spenser's lovely lines:-- "A little lowly hermitage it was, Downe in a dale, hard by a forest side." "Just so," said Pratt, in the hard, unromantic way of the twentieth century; "it's the kind of church you see in pictures." "The church in which Sir Percival met Sir Galahad," replied Tempest. The American felt the influence of the place despite the material faith which he held. There was a vein of romance in his nature which had been buried beneath the common-place and selfish. But in this holy solitude, at the door of the shrine, his spiritual self came uppermost, and when he stood bare-headed in the nave his talkative tongue was silent. The influence of the unseen surrounded him, and, like Moses, he was inclined to put off his shoes, "for this is holy ground," murmured his heart. Glancing at his companion, Tempest was surprised to see his usually pale and calm face working with emotion and covered with blushes. "You are unwell, Mr Pratt?" he asked in a low tone befitting the place. The man stammered, "No--that is, I feel that--well, no matter." He controlled himself by a powerful effort and laughed. Tempest was not shocked. He was shrewd enough to see that the merriment was artificial and designed to cloak a deeper feeling. But the laughter was reproved in a most unexpected fashion. "The joy of the profane is as the passing smoke," said a high, sweet voice. Pratt started in surprise, and looked around. He saw the jewelled windows shining through the dim twilight of the church, the white cloth on the altar, and the glimmer of a silver crucifix, in the faint light of tall candles. But who had spoken he could not guess, as no one was in sight. Mr Tempest, however, had recognised the voice. "Is that you, Pearl?" he called out softly. From behind the altar emerged a girl of eighteen, though in looks and stature she was a child. She was small and delicately formed, and on her thin white face there was a vacant look as of one whose wits were astray. No intelligence shone through her dark eyes, but a mystical light burned in their depths. Like Kilmeny, she had been to fairyland, and had seen things which had lifted her above the common lot of mortals. Therefore upon her face there shone the light that never was on sea or land. And, curiously enough, she was dressed in a green gown--the fairy's colour. Round her straw hat was twisted a wreath of oak leaves. When she appeared her arms were full of flowers. "You are decorating the altar, Pearl," said the vicar, kindly.