“So we have decided that it was the food and clothes that have wrought the miracle, and not any unusual healing virtues in me,” I said, quite relieved; for the change wrought was so sudden and great, I began to feel uneasy lest I might be possessed unconsciously of some mysterious power.

Mrs. Larkum smiled gently.  “I am not sure of that.  I find you always make me happier whenever I see you.  I seem to get a fresh hold on hope, as if there might yet be something in store for us.”

“I understand why you feel that way.  I am glad it is no mere inexplicable experience.”  I went into the kitchen thinking to give Mr. Bowen and the children a few of the surplus dainties.

He had ceased singing, but was sitting with uplifted face, as if in deep communion with God; his lips moved, but no sound escaped.

The eldest boy seeing me hesitate came to my side and whispered softly.  “Mother says we are not to speak when grandfather looks like that—­cos he’s praying.”  I stood holding the child’s hand, an indescribable sensation stealing over me while I stood gazing into the rapt, sightless face.

Never before in great cathedral, or humble church, had I felt the awful presence of God as at that moment.  A strange trembling seized me, and, involuntarily I turned my head away, as if I were gazing too boldly upon holy things.  I was reminded of the ancient high priest of the Jewish religion who, once a year, took his life in his hand, and went into the Holy of Holies, to gaze on the Divine token.

The child, too, stood silently with bated breath, perhaps more deeply impressed than his wont at seeing my emotion.  After awhile he pulled my hand gently and then motioned for me to stoop down to him.  I did so.

“Grandad prays every day for you.  I hear him myself.”  He looked up into my face with a curious expression of importance at having such a secret to tell, and surprise that I should need his grandfather’s prayers.

A sharp knock at the door broke the spell that was holding us in such holy quiet.

Mrs. Blake hastened to open it, when a strangely familiar voice sounded on my ear.

There was a hearty ring of welcome in her voice as she bade him welcome.

“Come right in; you’ll find things better’n you might expect.”

I turned to see who was coming.  A swift and kindly look of recognition in the deep, blue eyes took me back to my first experience of Cavendish; and an instant after I recollected, with a good deal of satisfaction, that it was the Rev. Mr. Lathrop, whom I first saw at Mrs. Daniel Blake’s funeral.  He extended his hand with such hearty cordiality that I gave him mine in return with a good bit of my heart along with it.

“I am glad to see you here.”  It was not so much in the words themselves as the way he spoke them, that such welcome meaning was conveyed.

“Indeed, you may be,” Mrs. Blake responded.