Every fresh scene of civilisation was a new wonder to Hal Clifford, and scarcely less so to Anne St. John, though her life in the moorland convent had begun when she was not quite so young as he had been when taken to the hills of Londesborough.  He had only been two or three times in the church at Threlkeld, which was simple and bare, and the full display of a monastic church was an absolute amazement, making him kneel almost breathless with awe, recollecting what the royal hermit had told him.  He was too illiterate to follow the service, but the music and the majestic flow of the chants overwhelmed him, and he listened with hands clasped over his face, not daring to raise his eyes to the dazzling gold of the altar, lighted by innumerable wax tapers.

The Prioress was amused.  ’Art dazed, my friend?  This is but a poor country cell; we will show you something much finer when we get to Derby.’

Hal drew a long breath.  ’Is that meant to be like the saints in Heaven?’ he said.  ‘Is that the way they sing there?’

‘I should hope they pronounce their Latin better,’ responded the Prioress, who, it may be feared, was rather a light-minded woman.  At any rate there was a chill upon Hal which prevented him from directing any of his remarks or questions to her for the future.  The chaplain told him something of what he wanted to know, but he met with the most sympathy from the Lady Anne.

‘Which, think you, is the fittest temple and worship?’ he said; as they rode out together, after hearing an early morning service, gone through in haste, and partaking of a hurried meal.  The sun was rising over the hills of Derbyshire, dyeing them of a red purple, standing out sharply against a flaming sky, flecked here and there with rosy clouds, and fading into blue that deepened as it rose higher.  The elms and beeches that bordered the monastic fields had begun to put on their autumn livery, and yellow leaves here and there were like sparks caught from the golden light.

Hal drew off his cap as in homage to the glorious sight.

‘Ah, it is fine!’ said Anne, ’it is like the sunrise upon our own moors, when one breathes freely, and the clouds grow white instead of grey.’

‘Ah!’ said Hal, ’I used to go out to the high ground and say the prayer the hermit taught me—­“Jam Lucis,” it began.  He said it was about the morning light.’

‘I know that “Jam Lucis,"’ said Anne; ’the Sisters sing it at prime, and Sister Scholastica makes us think how it means about light coming and our being kept from ill,’ and she hummed the chant of the first verse.

’I think this blue sky and royal sun, and the moon and stars at night, are God’s great hall of praise,’ said Hal, still keeping his cap off, as he had done through Anne’s chant of praise.

’Verily it is!  It is the temple of God Almighty, Creator of Heaven and earth, as the Credo says,’ replied Anne, ’but, maybe, we come nearer still to Him in God the Son when we are in church.’