carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen.  He seemed to see things more profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious significance.  But he could not tell what that significance was.  It was like a message which it was very important for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand.  He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague.  He was profoundly troubled.  He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range.  He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands.

LXXXIX

The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatter up the stairs.  Athelny opened the door for the children coming back from Sunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in.  Gaily he asked them what they had learned.  Sally appeared for a moment, with instructions from her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got tea ready; and Athelny began to tell them one of Hans Andersen’s stories.  They were not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that Philip was not formidable.  Jane came and stood by him and presently settled herself on his knees.  It was the first time that Philip in his lonely life had been present in a family circle:  his eyes smiled as they rested on the fair children engrossed in the fairy tale.  The life of his new friend, eccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty of perfect naturalness.  Sally came in once more.

“Now then, children, tea’s ready,” she said.

Jane slipped off Philip’s knees, and they all went back to the kitchen.  Sally began to lay the cloth on the long Spanish table.

“Mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?” she asked.  “I can give the children their tea.”

“Tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favour us with her company,” said Athelny.

It seemed to Philip that he could never say anything without an oratorical flourish.

“Then I’ll lay for her,” said Sally.

She came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf, a slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam.  While she placed the things on the table her father chaffed her.  He said it was quite time she was walking out; he told Philip that she was very proud, and would have nothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, two by two, outside the Sunday school and craved the honour of escorting her home.