ote, so quietly holy, so ancient, that I could think of
nothing but the "old febel chapel" of the _Morte d'Arthur_. It had, I
know not why, the mysterious air of romance all about it. It seemed to
sit, musing upon what had been and what should be, smilingly guarding
some tender secret for the pure-hearted, full of the peace the world
cannot give.

Within it was cool and dark, and had an ancient holy smell; it was
furnished sparely with seat and screen, and held monuments of old
knights and ladies, sleeping peacefully side by side, heads pillowed on
hands, looking out with quiet eyes, as though content to wait.

Upon the island in the moat, we learned, had stood once a flourishing
manor, but through what sad vicissitudes it had fallen into dust I care
not. Enough that peaceful lives had been lived there; children had
been born, had played on the moat-edge, had passed away to bear
children of their own, had returned with love in their hearts for the
old house. From the house to the church children had been borne for
baptism; merry wedding processions had gone to and fro, happy Christmas
groups had hurried backwards and forwards; and the slow funeral pomp
had passed thither, under the beating of the slow bell, bearing one
that should not return.

Something of the love and life and sorrow of the good days passed into
my mind, and I gave a tender thought to men and women whom I had never
known, who had tasted of life, and of joyful things that have an end;
and who now know the secret of the dark house to which we all are bound.

When we at last rose unwillingly to go, the sun was setting, and flamed
red and brave through the gnarled trunks of the little wood; the mist
crept over the pasture, and far away the lights of the lonely farm
began to wink through the gathering dark.

But I had seen! Something of the joy of the two sweet places had
settled in my mind; and now, in fretful, weary, wakeful hours, it is
good to think of the clear wells that sparkle so patiently in the dark
wood; and, better still, to wander in mind about the moat and the
little silent church; and to wonder what it all means; what the love is
that creeps over the soul at the sight of these places, so full of a
remote and delicate beauty; and whether the hunger of the heart for
peace and permanence, which visits us so often in our short and
difficult pilgrimage, has a counterpart in the land that is very far
off.

VII

The Cuckoo

I h