of one who is drawn along by magnetic power ... steadily and slowly up the nave, ... and as he went, the music surged more tumultuously among the vaulted arches,—­there was a faint echo afar off, as of tinkling crystal bells; and at each onward step he gained a new access of courage, strength, firmness, and untrammelled ease, till every timorous doubt and fear had fled away, and he stood directly in front of the altar railing, gazing at the enshrined Cross, and seeing for the moment nothing save that Divine Symbol alone.  And still the organ played, and still the voices sang,—­he knew these sounds were not of earth, and he also knew that they were intended to convey a meaning to him,—­but what meaning?

All at once, moved by a sudden impulse, he turned toward the right hand side of the altar, where the great statue of St. Christopher stands, and where one of the loveliest windows in the world gleams like a great carven gem aloft, filtering the light through a myriad marvellous shades of color, and there he beheld, kneeling on the stone pavement, one solitary worshipper,—­a girl.  Her hands were clasped, and her face was bent upon them so that her features were not visible,—­but the radiance from the window fell on her uncovered golden hair, encircling it with the glistening splendor of a heavenly nimbus,—­and round her slight, devotional figure, rays of azure and rose jasper and emerald, flickered in wide and lustrous patterns, like the glow of the setting sun on a translucent sea.  How very still she was! ... how fervently absorbed in prayer!

Vaguely startled, and thrilled by an electric, indefinable instinct, Alwyn went toward her with hushed and reverential tread, his eyes dwelling upon the drooping, delicate outline of her form with fascinated and eager attention.  She was clad in gray,—­a soft, silken, dove-like gray, that clung about her in picturesque, daintily draped folds,—­he approached her still more nearly, and then could scarcely refrain from a loud cry of amazement!  What flowers were those she wore at her breast!—­so white, so star-like, so suggestive of paradise lilies new-gathered?  Were they not the flowers of Ardath?  Dizzy with the sudden tumult of his own emotions, he dropped on his knees beside her,—­she did not stir!  Was she real?—­or a phantom?  Trembling violently, he touched her garment—­it was of tangible, smooth texture, actual enough, if the sense of touch could be relied upon.  In an agony of excitement and suspense he lost all remembrance of time, place, or custom,—­her bewildering presence must be explained,—­he must know who she was,—­he must speak to her,—­speak, if he died for it!

“Pardon me!” he whispered faintly, scarcely conscious of his own words; “I fancy,—­I think,—­we have met,—­before!  May I, . . dare I, . . ask your name?”

Slowly she unclasped her gently folded hands; slowly, very slowly, she lifted her bent head, and smiled at him!  Oh, the lovely light upon her face!  Oh, the angel glory of those strange, sweet eyes!