“After that, of course I can only bid your ladyship farewell,” said the offended Major, with a ceremonious bow.  Then turning to me:  “Good-bye, my dear Miss Janet, for the present.  Even at this, the eleventh hour, I must intercede with Lady Chillington to grant you permission to come and spend part of next week with us at Rose Cottage.”

“Oh! take her, and welcome; I have no wish to keep her here.  But you will stop to dinner, Major, when we will talk of these things further.  And now, Miss Pest, you had better run away.  You have heard too much already.”

I was glad enough to get away; so after a hasty kiss to Major Strickland, I hurried indoors; and once in my own bed-room, I burst into an uncontrollable fit of crying.  How cruel had been Lady Chillington’s words! and her looks had been more cruel than they.

I was still weeping when Sister Agnes came into the room.  She had but just returned from Eastbury.  She knelt beside me, and took me in her arms and kissed me, and wiped away my tears.  “Why was I crying?” she asked.  I told her of all that Lady Chillington had said.

“Oh! cruel, cruel of her to treat you thus!” she said.  “Can nothing move her—­nothing melt that heart of adamant?  But, Janet, dear, you must not let her sharp words wound you so deeply.  Would that my love could shield you from such trials in future.  But that cannot always be.  You must strive to regard such things as part of that stern discipline of life which is designed to tutor our wayward hearts and rebellious spirits, and bring them into harmony with a will superior to our own.  And now you must tell me all about your voyage down the Adair, and your rescue by that brave George Strickland.  Ah! how grieved I was, when the news was brought to Deepley Walls, that I could not hasten to you, and see with my own eyes that you had come to no harm!  But I was chained to my post, and could not stir.”

Scarcely had Sister Agnes done speaking when the air was filled with a strain of music that seemed to be more sweet and solemn than anything I had ever heard before.  All the soreness melted out of my heart as I listened; all my troubles seemed to take to themselves wings, and life to put on an altogether different aspect from any it had ever worn to me before.  I saw clearly that I had not been so good a girl in many ways as I might have been.  I would try my best not to be so inattentive at church in future, and I would never, no, not even on the coldest night in winter, neglect to say my prayers before getting into bed.

“What is it?  Where does it come from?” I whispered into the ear of Sister Agnes.

“It is Father Spiridion playing the organ in the west gallery.”

“And who is Father Spiridion?”

“A good man and my friend.  Presently you shall be introduced to him.”

No word more was spoken till the playing ceased.  Then Sister Agnes took me by the hand and we went towards the west gallery.  Father Spiridion saw us, and paused on the top of the stairs.