All other considerations, which she had before believed of importance, now seemed trivial and inept.  She wondered how she could have been blinded for so long.  She bitterly reproached herself for her high-flown scruples, which now savoured of unwholesome affectation; but for these, she might not only have been a happy wife, but she might, also, have proved the means of conferring happiness upon another, and he a dearly loved one.

She called to Jill and sorrowfully went home.  Three weeks later was Whit Monday, a day which, being a holiday, she was able to devote to her own uses.  She had planned to walk to the village of Preen, an ancient hamlet set upon a hill that overlooked Salisbury Plain, which was distant some five miles from Melkbridge; but, at the last moment, her distress of mind was such that she abandoned the excursion.  Lethargy had succeeded to her disturbed thoughts—­ lethargy that made her look on life through grey spectacles.  Instead of setting out for Preen, she walked aimlessly about the town, accompanied by Jill.  Presently she went up Church Walk, at the top of which she saw that the church door was open.  She had a fancy for walking by the grave-stones, so Mavis tied Jill up to the gate of the churchyard with the lead which she usually carried.

As Mavis wandered among the moss-grown stones, which bore almost undecipherable inscriptions, she wondered if those they covered had led happy, contented lives, or if they were afflicted with unquiet thoughts, unsatisfied longings, and dull despair, as she was.  The church was empty and cool; she walked inside, to sit in the first pew she chanced upon.  It was the first time that she had sat all alone in the church; its venerable appearance now cried aloud for recognition and appreciation.  As if to accentuate its antiquity, some of the aisles and walls bore the disfiguring evidences of an unfinished electric light and electric organ-blowing installation, which was in the process of being made, despite the protests of the more conservative among the worshippers.  She did not know whether to stay or to go; she seemed incapable of making up her mind.  Then, almost before she was aware of it, the organ commenced to play softly, appealingly; very soon, the fane was filled with majestic notes.  Mavis was always acutely sensitive to music.  In a moment, her troubles were forgotten; she listened enrapt to the soaring melody.  The player was not the humdrum organist of the church, neither did his music savour of the ecclesiastical inspiration which makes its conventional appeal on Sundays and holy days.  Instead, it spoke to Mavis of the travail, the joy of being, the night, sunlight, sea, air, the gay and grey pageant of life:  the player appeared to be moved by all these influences.  Not only was he eloquent of life, but he seemed to read and understand Mavis’ soul and the perplexities with which it was confronted.  Her heart went out to this sympathetic and intimate understanding of