“I know you did it in all simplicity, my dear child—­forgive the epithet, I have daughters of my own, and thankful should I be if one of them could have produced such effects.  I tell you, madam, my dear friend, one of the most estimable and brilliant men of his day, was an utter wreck, both in mind and body, through the cruel machinations of an unprincipled woman.  How much was to the actual injury from his wound, how much to grief and remorse, Heaven only knows, but the death of his brother, who alone had authority with him, left him thus to cut himself off entirely in this utter darkness and despair.  I called at first monthly, then yearly, after the melancholy catastrophe, and held many consultations with good Mr. Wayland, but all in vain.  It was reserved for your sweet notes to awaken and recall him to what I trust is indeed new life.”

Tears filled Aurelia’s eyes, and she could only murmur something about being very glad.

“Yes,” pursued Dr. Godfrey, “it is as if I saw him rising from his living tomb in all senses of the word.  I find that your artless Sunday evening conversations have even penetrated the inner hopeless gloom, still more grievous than the outer darkness in which he lived.”

“Indeed, sir, I never meant to be presumptuous.”

“God’s blessing on such presumption, my good child!  If you had been fully aware of his state of mind, you might never have ventured nor have touched the sealed heart, as you have done, as I perceive, in your ignorance, out of your obedient reverence to the Lord’s day.  Am I not right?”

“Yes, sir, I thought one could not repeat plays and poems on Sunday, and I was frightened when I found those other things were strange to him; but he bade me go on.”

“For the sake of the music of your voice, as he tells me, at first; but afterwards because you became the messenger of hope to one who had long lain in the shadow of death, thinking pardon and mercy too much out of reach to be sought for.  You have awakened prayer within him once more.”

She could not speak, and Dr. Godfrey continued, “You will be glad to hear that I am to see the curate on my way through Brentford, and arrange with him at times to read prayers in the outer room.  What is it?” he added; “you look somewhat doubtful.”

“Only, sir, perhaps I ought not to say so, but I cannot think Mr. Belamour well ever care for poor Mr. Greaves.  If he could only hear that gentleman who comes to Sedhurst!  I never knew how much fire could be put into the service itself, and yet I have often been at Carminster Cathedral.”

“True, my dear young lady.  These enthusiasts seem to be kindling a new fire in the Church, but I am not yet so convinced of their orthodoxy and wisdom as to trust them unreservedly; and zeal pushed too far might offend our poor recluse, and alienate him more than ever.  He is likely to profit more by the direct words of the Church herself, read without personal meaning, than by the individual exhortations of some devout stranger.”