About four miles from her home was a favourite nook to which she oft resorted.  In a hollow of the hills, which rise gently to their summit behind Heathfield, overshadowed by tall trees, environed by purple heather, was a dark deep pond:  so black in the shade that its waters looked like ink.  But it had all the resplendency of a mirror, and was indeed called “The mirror pond;” the upper sky, the branches of the trees, were so vividly reflected that any one who had a fancy for standing upon the head, on the brink of the pool, might have easily believed his posture was correct, and that he looked up into the azure void.

At the north end of this sheltered and sequestered dell was a rustic seat, looking over the pond; and hard by was a large crucifix, life size, so that the devout might be stirred thereby to meditation.

Here came the Lady Sybil, and sat by the side in the arbour one beautiful day; the autumn of the year of grace, at which we have now arrived—­twelve hundred and sixty.  And she sat and mused upon her dead husband, and her absent nephew, and strove to learn the secret of true resignation, as she gazed upon the representation of suffering Love Incarnate.

All at once she heard a voice singing: 

Love sets my heart on fire,
Love of the Crucified: 
To Him my heart He drew,
Whilst hanging on the tree,
From whence He said to me,
I am thy Shepherd true;
I am thy Bridegroom new.

The sweet plaintive words struck her with deep emotion.  And as she listened eagerly, lo, the branches parted, and two brethren of Saint Francis came out upon the edge of the pond.

She paused as they knelt before the rood.  At length they rose, and approached the arbour wherein she sat.

“Sister,” said the foremost one, “hast thou met Him of Nazareth? for I know He has been seeking thee!”

What was it which made her gaze upon the speaker with such surprise?  Have any of my readers ever met a member of a well known, and perchance much loved, family, whom they have never seen before, and felt struck by the familiar tones of the voice, and by the mien of the stranger?  She looked earnestly at our Martin, but of course knew him not, only she wondered whether this were the “brother” of whom Hubert had spoken.

“I know not whether He has found me, but I have long been seeking Him,” she said sadly.

“Then, my sister, thou dost not yet know what He is to those who find?”

Quam bonus es petentibus
Sed quid invenientibus {27}!

“How may I find Him?  I seek Him on the right hand and He is not there, and on the left and He is not to be found.  Oh, tell me all about Him, and how I may find rest in that Love!”

And there, beside that mirror pond, did a heart all afire with Divine Love kindle the dry wood, all ready for the blaze, in the heart of another.  After the long colloquy, which we omit, the lady added: