The hymn given out and the tune of it played through, the assembly scraped and rustled to its feet.  Damaris standing, in height overtopping her neighbours, discreetly turned her head.  Let her eyes rest an instant, smiling, upon the upturned polished countenances of the two small Patches—­shyly watching her—­and then seek a more distant goal.  Yes, veritably Theresa Bilson in the flesh—­very much in the flesh, full of face and plump of bosom, gold-rimmed glasses gleaming, her mouth opened wide in song.  It was a little astonishing to see her so unchanged.  For how much had happened since the day of that choir-treat, at Harchester, which marked her deposition, the day of Damaris’ sleep in the sunshine and awakening in the driving wet out on the Bar.—­The day wherein so much began, and so much ended, slashed across and across with an extravagance of lasting joy and lasting pain!—­In the sense of it all Damaris lost herself a little, becoming forgetful of her existing situation.  She looked past, over Theresa and beyond.

At the extreme end of the church, in the last of the free seats where the light from the west door streamed inward, a man’s figure detached itself with singular distinctness from the background of whitewashed wall.  He, too, overtopped his fellows, and that by several inches.  And from the full length of the building, across the well-filled benches, his glance sought and met that of Damaris, and held it in fearless, high security of affection not to be gainsaid.

The nice, clean-shining little Patches, still watching shyly out of their brown, glossy, mouse-like eyes, to their extreme mystification saw the colour flood Damaris’ face, saw her lips tremble and part as in prelude to happy speech.  Then saw her grow very pale, and, turning away, clutch at the head of the alert little hound.  Mrs. Cooper delivered herself of a quite audible whisper to the effect—­“that Miss Damaris was took faint-like, as she feared.”  And Mary leaned forward over the front of the pew in quick anxiety.  But our maiden’s weakness was but passing.  She straightened herself, stood tall and proudly again, looking at the knight and his lady lying so peacefully side by side upon their marble couch.  She gathered them into her gladness—­they somehow sympathized, she felt, in her present sweet and poignant joy.  Her soul had known best, had been right in its homing—­since Faircloth was here—­was here.

That sweet, poignant joy flooded her, so that she wordlessly gave thanks and praise.  He was in life—­more, was within sight of her, hearing the same sounds, breathing the same air.  Across the short dividing space, spirit had embraced spirit.  He claimed her.—­Had not his will, indeed, far more than any curiosity regarding the identity of poor, plump little Theresa, compelled her to look around?

She demanded nothing further, letting herself dwell in a perfection of content—­without before or after—­possible only to the pure in heart and to the young.