“Margaret!” he repeated, as their eyes met, “you have done much to soften your father’s anger and your brother’s impetuosity, and your mediation has perhaps endeared you to heaven—­but you can do more!  Devote your life to the extinction of the feud between the houses of Stramen and Hers—­look to the duty that stares you in the face, and fulfil that vocation before you seek another!  Make peace between these houses the first object of your prayers, and the aim of all your efforts, and God will soon determine whether the cloister or the castle requires your presence in the accomplishment of your noble end!”

As Father Omehr concluded, the Lady Margaret, yielding to the impulse she had till then controlled, wept like a child.  Yet it was not deeper dejection that made her sob as though her heart would break, but rather a sense of relief, and a sweet consolation that banished all spiritual dryness.  Her instructor had often before suggested her obligation to consecrate herself to the task of healing the feud; but never had he so solemnly warned her, and never had she seen her duty so clearly.

“Be calm, my child,” continued the missionary; “you can compose yourself in the church, while I prepare for the service.  Prostrate yourself before the infinite majesty and goodness of God, and invoke His assistance, with a determination to accept with resignation whatever trial He may send.  And forget not to supplicate the intercession of the Blessed Mary.  Open your heart to her; beg her to discover and obtain its pious wants. She whom Jesus obeyed on earth, will not ask in vain in His eternal kingdom:  God, who made her the medium of salvation to man while she remained a poor Jewish virgin, cannot deem her unworthy of being the channel of His choicest graces to us, now that she stands beatified in heaven!”

The Lady Margaret passed into the church and knelt before the altar.  There she remained until the psalms were sung and the evening hymn was over.  When she rose, her face was calm, and even joyous.  There was no exultation in her look, but it was full of meek serenity.  As she left the church, she met Father Omehr.  She greeted him with a smile that told what a load was taken off her heart.  There was gratitude, esteem, and a holy joy in that smile—­it was full of tender and indescribable sweetness—­it was an expression of the happiness and purity of her soul.

It was not the bright smile of youth, or the warm smile of affection; it had none of the witchery of woman, but much of the devotion of the Saint:  beautiful as she was, and still more beautiful as it made her, it suggested the Creator, not the creature.

“We shall expect you to-night, Father,” she said, pausing but a moment.

Father Omehr nodded, and dismissed the children, who had come for a parting blessing, while the maiden turned her palfrey toward the castle.  She rode swiftly, for dark clouds were climbing up the knew the extent of his infatuation, he was revolving the feasibility of revealing his attachment.  At last he had determined to embrace the first chance of declaring a love now past concealment.