“And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day:  and A dam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God among the trees of the garden.”

Less terrible this voice was; a seraph’s rather, at the lodge-gate, welcoming the morn.  Yet Hetty crouched by her pillar, afraid.  For the day he welcomed was not her day, the worship he offered was not her worship; for her a sword lay across the gate.

Her terror passed, and she straightened herself.  After all, she did not repent.  Why should she repent?  She was loved; she loved in return, utterly and without guile, with a love which, centred upon one, yet embraced all living creatures.  Nay, it embraced Heaven, if Heaven would accept it.  And why not?

“Wherefore let us beseech him,” said the voice, “to grant us true repentance and his Holy Spirit, that those things may please him which we do at this present; and that the rest of our life hereafter may be pure and holy . . .”

“Pure and holy”—­but she desired no less, and out of her love.  She wanted to be friends with all at home, to go to them fearlessly and make them understand her as she understood them, and to be good all the days of her life.  “True repentance”?  Why repent? . . .  Ah, yes, of course:  but God was no haggler over hours.  In an hour or two . . .  “That those things may please him which we do at this present—­” She caught at her heart now as the terror—­a practical terror this time—­returned upon it.  At all costs she must find John Romley after service, though indeed there was little danger of missing him, for he, no doubt, would be seeking her.

Her mind was clear now.

She lay in wait for him as he stepped out under the great porch, with a clean surplice on his arm.  He paused there with a smile on his face, glanced up at the blue sky, clapped on his hat, and descended the steps gaily, whistling a phrase from the Venite exultemus; too far preoccupied to recognise Hetty, until she stepped forward and almost laid a hand on his arm.

“Miss Mehetabel!”

Plainly, then, he was not seeking her.

“You in Lincoln?  This is a surprise—­a pleasant surprise, indeed!”

“But I came in search of you.  I have been waiting—­” She nodded her head towards the porch.

“Eh?  You heard?  ’Twas not altogether a breakdown, I hope?  You must allow for some nervousness—­did you detect it?  No?  Well, I don’t mind owning to you I was nervous as a cat:  but there, if you didn’t detect it I shall flatter myself I did passably.”  He laughed, evidently on the best terms with himself.  His breath smelt of beer.  “The Rector is with you, of course?”

“My father?  But, Mr. Romley, I don’t think you understand—­”