octor.' That is like Cecilia. No suffering could ever
be disgusting or shocking to Cecilia, nor ridiculous, nor grotesque. The
more humiliating it was, the more pitiful it would be to her. Anything
that suffers is sacred to Cecilia. She would comfort, as if she went on
her knees to one; and her touch on one's wounds, one's ugliest wounds,
would be like,"--she hesitated and looked about her in quest of a
comparison, then, pointing to a picture over the door, a picture of the
Magdalene, kissing the bleeding feet upon the Cross, ended, "like that."

"Oh, Mrs. Molyneux," I cried, "if there be love like that in the world,
then--"

The door opened and Castleman entered.

"If you please, sir, the carriage is at the door."

CHAPTER VII

CECILIA'S GOSPEL

The rain gradually ceased falling as we drove onward and upward to the
station. It stood on high ground, overlooking a wide sweep of downland
and fallow, bordered towards the west by close-set woodlands, purple
that evening against a sky of limpid gold, which the storm-clouds
discovered as they lifted.

I had not long to wait, for, punctual to its time, the train steamed
into the station. From that part of the train to which I first looked,
four or five passengers stepped out; not one of them certainly the lady
that I waited for. Glancing from side to side I saw, standing at the far
end of the platform, two women; one of them was tall; could this be Mrs.
de Noel? And yet no, I reflected as I went towards them, for she held a
baby in her arms--a baby moreover swathed, not in white and laces, but
in a tattered and discoloured shawl: while her companion, lifting out
baskets and bundles from a third-class carriage, was poorly and evenly
miserably clad. But again, as I drew nearer, I observed that the long
fine hand which supported the child was delicately gloved, and that the
cloak which swung back from the encircling arm was lined and bordered
with very costly fur. This and something in the whole outline--

"Mrs. de Noel?" I murmured inquiringly.

Then she turned towards me, and I saw her, as I often see her now in
dreams, against that sunset background of aerial gold which the artist
of circumstance had painted behind her, like a new Madonna, holding the
child of poverty to her heart, pressing her cheek against its tiny head
with a gesture whose exquisite tenderness, for at least that fleeting
instant, seemed to bridge across the gulf which still yawns between