a fresh hold on hope, as if
there might yet be something in store for us."

"I understand why you feel that way. I am glad it is no mere inexplicable
experience." I went into the kitchen thinking to give Mr. Bowen and the
children a few of the surplus dainties.

He had ceased singing, but was sitting with uplifted face, as if in deep
communion with God; his lips moved, but no sound escaped.

The eldest boy seeing me hesitate came to my side and whispered softly.
"Mother says we are not to speak when grandfather looks like that--cos
he's praying." I stood holding the child's hand, an indescribable
sensation stealing over me while I stood gazing into the rapt, sightless
face.

Never before in great cathedral, or humble church, had I felt the awful
presence of God as at that moment. A strange trembling seized me, and,
involuntarily I turned my head away, as if I were gazing too boldly upon
holy things. I was reminded of the ancient high priest of the Jewish
religion who, once a year, took his life in his hand, and went into the
Holy of Holies, to gaze on the Divine token.

The child, too, stood silently with bated breath, perhaps more deeply
impressed than his wont at seeing my emotion. After awhile he pulled my
hand gently and then motioned for me to stoop down to him. I did so.

"Grandad prays every day for you. I hear him myself." He looked up into
my face with a curious expression of importance at having such a secret
to tell, and surprise that I should need his grandfather's prayers.

A sharp knock at the door broke the spell that was holding us in such
holy quiet.

Mrs. Blake hastened to open it, when a strangely familiar voice sounded
on my ear.

There was a hearty ring of welcome in her voice as she bade him welcome.

"Come right in; you'll find things better'n you might expect."

I turned to see who was coming. A swift and kindly look of recognition in
the deep, blue eyes took me back to my first experience of Cavendish;
and an instant after I recollected, with a good deal of satisfaction,
that it was the Rev. Mr. Lathrop, whom I first saw at Mrs. Daniel Blake's
funeral. He extended his hand with such hearty cordiality that I gave him
mine in return with a good bit of my heart along with it.

"I am glad to see you here." It was not so much in the words themselves
as the way he spoke them, that such welcome meaning was conveyed.

"Indeed, you may be," Mrs. Blake responded.

I saw Mr. Bowen eagerly w