A few days later Rosamund wrote to Canon Wilton, who happened to be in residence at Welsley out of his usual time, and asked him if he knew of any pretty small house, with a garden, in the neighborhood, where she and Robin could settle down till Dion came back from the war.  In answer she got a letter from the Canon inviting her to spend a night or two at his house in the Precincts.  In a P.S. he wrote: 

“If you can come next week I think I can arrange with Mr. Soames, our precentor, for Wesley’s ‘Wilderness’ to be sung at one of the afternoon services; but let me know by return what days you will be here.”

Rosamund replied by telegraph.  Aunt Beatrice was installed in Little Market Street for a couple of nights as Robin’s protector, and Rosamund went down to Welsley, and spent two days with the Canon.

She had never been alone with him before, except now and then for a few minutes, but he was such a sincere and plain-spoken man that she had always felt she genuinely knew him.  To every one with whom he spoke he gave himself as he was.  This unusual sincerity in Rosamund’s eyes was a great attraction.  She often said that she could never feel at home with pretense even if the intention behind it was kindly.  Perhaps, however, she did not always detect it, although she possessed the great gift of feminine intuition.

She arrived by the express, which reached Welsley Station in the evening, and found Canon Wilton at the station to meet her.  His greeting was: 

“The ‘Wilderness,’ Wesley, at the afternoon service to-morrow.”

“That’s good of you!” she exclaimed, with the warm and radiant cordiality that won her so many friends.  “I shall revel in my little visit here.  It’s an unexpected treat.”

The Canon seemed for a moment almost surprised by her buoyant anticipation, and a look that was sad flitted across his face; but she did not notice it.

As they drove in a fly to his house in the Precincts she looked out at the busy provincial life in the narrow streets of the old country town, and enjoyed the intimate concentration of it all.

“I should like to poke about here,” she said.  “I should feel at home as I never do in London.  I believe I’m thoroughly provincial at heart.”

In the highest tower of the Cathedral, which stood in the heart of the town, the melodious chimes lifted up their crystalline voices, and “Great John” boomed out the hour in a voice of large authority.

“Seven o’clock,” said the Canon.  “Dinner is at eight.  You’ll be all alone with me this evening.”

“To-morrow too, I hope,” Rosamund said, with a smile.

“No, to-morrow we shall be the awkward number—­three.  Mr. Robertson, from Liverpool, is coming to stay with me for a few days.  He preaches here next Sunday evening.”

Rosamund’s thought was carried back to a foggy night in London, when she had heard a sermon on egoism, and a quotation she had never forgotten:  "Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat."