“The will of the spiritual world, the divine will, revealed in man.”  What sublime thoughts, as old as the Cross itself, yet continually and eternally new!

III

There was still another whose face was constantly before him, and the reflection of her distressed yet undaunted soul,—­Alison Parr.  The contemplation of her courage, of her determination to abide by nothing save the truth, had had a power over him that he might not estimate, and he loved her as a man loves a woman, for her imperfections.  And he loved her body and her mind.

One morning, as he walked back from Mrs. Bledsoe’s through an unfrequented, wooded path of the Park, he beheld her as he had summoned her in his visions.  She was sitting motionless, gazing before her with clear eyes, as at the Fates. . .

She started on suddenly perceiving him, but it was characteristic of her greeting that she seemed to feel no surprise at the accident which had brought them together.

“I am afraid,” he said, smiling, “that I have broken in on some profound reflections.”

She did not answer at once, but looked up at him, as he stood over her, with one of her strange, baffling gazes, in which there was the hint of a welcoming smile.

“Reflection seems to be a circular process with me,” she answered.  “I never get anywhere—­like you.”

“Like me!” he exclaimed, seating himself on the bench.  Apparently their intercourse, so long as it should continue, was destined to be on the basis of intimacy in which it had begun.  It was possible at once to be aware of her disturbing presence, and yet to feel at home in it.

“Like you, yes,” she said, continuing to examine him.  “You’ve changed remarkably.”

In his agitation, at this discovery of hers he again repeated her words.

“Why, you seem happier, you look happier.  It isn’t only that, I can’t explain how you impress me.  It struck me when you were talking to Mr. Bentley the other day.  You seem to see something you didn’t see when I first met you, that you didn’t see the first time we were at Mr. Bentley’s together.  Your attitude is fixed—­directed.  You have made a decision of some sort—­a momentous one, I rather think.”

“Yes,” he replied, “you are right.  It’s more than remarkable that you should have guessed it.”

She remained silent

“I have decided,” he found himself saying abruptly, “to continue in the Church.”

Still she was silent, until he wondered whether she would answer him.  He had often speculated to himself how she would take this decision, but he could make no surmise from her expression as she stared off into the wood.  Presently she turned her head, slowly, and looked into his face.  Still she did not speak.

“You are wondering how I can do it,” he said.

“Yes,” she acknowledged, in a low voice.