“My dear!” exclaimed Mr. Dickinson, about a minute later, bursting—­rather than going—­into his wife’s small drawing-room, “I’ve just met the most delightful woman, a goddess to look at, and as charming as a siren brought up to be a saint.”

“More epigrams, Henry!” murmured Mrs. Dickinson.

“She’s staying with Canon Wilton.  She’s a thorough musician such as one seldom comes across.  There’s a chance—­I hope it materializes—­of her taking—­”

“Your tea is nearly cold, Henry.”

“Her name is Mrs. Dion Leith.  If she really does come here we must be sure to—­”

“Scones, Henry?”

Thus urged, Mr. Dickinson’s body for the moment took precedence of his soul.

Rosamund knew she was going to like Mr. Robertson as she liked very few people.  She felt as if already she was his friend, and when they shook hands in Canon Wilton’s drawing-room she cordially told him so, and referred to the Sunday evening when she had heard him preach.  The rooks were cawing among the elms in the Canon’s garden.  She could hear their voices in the treetops while she was speaking.  A wind was stirring as the afternoon waned, and there came a patter of rain on the lofty windows.  And the voices of the rooks, in the windy treetops, the patter of the rain, and the sigh of the wind were delightful to Rosamund, because she was safely within the Precincts, like a bird surrounded by the warmth of its nest.

“I’m coming to live here,” she said to Mr. Robertson, as she poured out tea for the two clergymen.  “My husband has gone to South Africa with the City Imperial Volunteers.  He’s in business, so we live in London.  But while he’s away I mean to stay here.”

And eagerly almost as a child, she told him about the house of the Dean’s widow, and described to him the garden.

“It’s like a convent garden, isn’t it?” she asked Canon Wilton, who assented.  “That’s why I love it.  It gives me the feeling of enclosed peace that must be so dear to nuns.”

Something in her voice and look as she said this evidently struck Mr. Robertson, and when she presently left the room he said to Canon Wilton: 

“If I didn’t know that sweet woman had a husband I should say she was born with the vocation for a religious life.  From the first moment I spoke to her, looked at her, I felt that, and the feeling grows upon me.  Can’t one see her among sisters?”

“I don’t wish to,” said Canon Wilton bluntly.  “Shall we go to my study?”

With the composed gentleness that was characteristic of him Father Robertson assented, and they went downstairs.  When they were safely shut up in the big room, guarded by multitudes of soberly bound volumes, Canon Wilton said: