hristians. Stephen was in chapel. There was
no service; he had half an hour to rest in and he rested there. He was
speculating, in the grateful dimness, about the dogma--he had never
quite accepted it, though Colquhoun had--of the intercessory power of
the souls of saints. A converted Brahmin, an old man, had died the day
before. Arnold luxuriated in the humility of thinking that he would
be glad of any good word dear old Nourendra Lal could say for him. The
chapel was deliciously refined. The scent of fresh cut flowers floated
upon the continual presence of the incense; a lily outlined its head
against the tall carved altarpiece the Brothers had brought from
Damascus. The seven brass lamps that hung from the rafters above the
altar rails were also Damascene, carved and pierced so that the light
in them was a still thing like a prayer; and the place breathed vague
meanings which did not ask understanding. It was a refuge from the riot
and squalor of the whitewashed streets with a double value and a treble
charm--I.H.S. among plaster gods, a sanctuary in the bazar. Stephen sat
in it motionless, with his lean limbs crossed in front of him, until the
half-hour was up; then he bent his knee before the altar and went out to
meet a servant at the door with Hilda's letter. The chapel opened upon
an upper verandah, he crossed it to get a better light and stood to read
with his back half turned upon the comers and goers.

It was her first communication since they parted, and in spite of its
colourlessness it seemed to lay strong eager hands upon him, turning his
shoulder that way, upon the world, bending his head over the page.
He had not dwelt much upon their strange experience, in the days that
followed. It had retreated, for him, behind the veil of tender mystery
with which he shrouded, even from his own eyes, the things that lay
between his soul and God. The space from that day to this had been
more than usually full of ministry; its pure uses had fallen like snow,
blotting and deadening the sudden wonder that blossomed then. Latterly
he had hardly thought of it.

So far was he removed, so deeply drawn again within his familiar
activities, that he regarded Hilda's letter for an instant with a lip
of censure, as if, for some reason, it should not have been admitted.
It was, in a manner, her physical presence, the words expanded into
her, through it she walked back into his life, with an interrogation.
Standing there by the p