Alice wore pretty dresses too, if less elaborate; and, despite its change of name, was not the church where she and Narcissus met, as the church wherein Hero and Leander first looked upon each other, the Temple of Love?  Certainly the country church to which Narcissus self-consciously passed through groups of Sunday-clothed villagers, was decked as for no Christian festival this Sabbath morning.  The garlands that twined about the old Norman columns, the clumps of primroses and violets that sprung at their feet, as at the roots of gigantic beeches, the branches of palm and black-thorn that transformed the chancel to a bower:  probably for more than knew it, these symbols of the joy and beauty of earth had simpler, more instinctive, meanings than those of any arbitrary creed.  For others in the church besides Narcissus, no doubt, they spoke of young love, the bloom and the fragrance thereof, of mating birds and pairing men and maids, of the eternal principle of loveliness, which, in spite of winter and of wrong, brings flowers and faces to bless and beautify this church of the world.

As Narcissus sat in his front row, his eyes drawn up in a prayer to the painted glories of the great east window, his whole soul lifted up on the wings of colour, scent, and sound—­the whole sacred house had but one meaning:  just his love for Alice.  Nothing in the world was too holy to image that.  The windows, the music, the flowers, all were metaphors of her:  and, as the organ swirled his soul along in the rapids of its passionate, prayerful sound, it seemed to him that Alice and he already stood at the gate of Heaven!

Presently, across his mingled sensations came a measured tramp as of boy-soldiers marching in line.  You have heard it!  You have listened for it!!  It was the dear, unmistakable sound of a girls’ school on the march.  Quickly it came nearer, it was in the porch—­it was in the church!  Narcissus gave a swift glance round.  He dare not give a real searching look yet.  His heart beat too fast, his cheek burned too red.  But he saw it was a detachment of girls—­it certainly was Alice’s school.

Then came the white-robed choristers, and the white-haired priests:  If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us; but, if we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

DEARLY BELOVED BRETHREN....

His heart swelled with a sobbing exaltation of worship such as he had not known for years.  You could hardly have believed that a little apple-dumpling of a pink and white girl was the real inspirer of that look in his young face that made old ladies, even more than young ones, gaze at him, and remark afterwards on the strange boy with the lovely spiritual expression.