The church to St Gabriel the Messenger was enshrined in a leafy . No churlish wall marked the limits of the sacred ground, and from the ancient building a soft green sward stretched on all sides to the circle of oaks which sheltered it from the rude winds. In this circle were two openings counter to each other. The lower one admitted those who came from Colester into the precincts; the upper gave entrance to a larger glade, in which the dead had been buried for centuries. This also was without a wall, and it was strange beyond words to come suddenly upon an assemblage of tombstones in the heart of a wood. From this God's-acre a path climbed upward to the , and passed for some little distance until it was by the purple heather. Then for leagues stretched the trackless, treeless waste to the foot of distant hills.  
Of no great size, the was an architectural . Built in the form of a cross, a square tower rose where the four arms met, and this contained a famous of bells. The grey stone walls were carved with strange and holy devices, lettered with sacred texts in mediæval Latin, and here and there were draped in darkly-green . The sharp angles of the building had been rounded by the weather, the stones were by time, and, nestling under the great of the oaks, it had a holy, restful look. "Like a prayer made visible," said Mr Tempest.
 
With his companion he had paused at the entrance to the glade, so as to enjoy the beauty of the scene. Round the chapel swept the swallows, pigeons whirled aloft in the cloudless blue sky; from the leafy trees came the cooing of doves, and the cawing of rooks could be heard. All the wild life of the wood haunted the chapel, and the place was musical with forest minstrelsy. As the beauty of scene and sound crept into their hearts, the vicar quoted Spenser's lovely lines:—
 
"A little lowly hermitage it was,
Downe in a dale, hard by a forest side."
"Just so," said Pratt, in the hard, unromantic way of the twentieth century; "it's the kind of church you see in pictures."
 
"The church in which Sir Percival met Sir Galahad," replied Tempest.
 
The American felt the influence of the place despite the material faith which he held. There was a of romance in his nature which had been buried beneath the common-place and selfish. But in this holy , at the door of the , his spiritual self came uppermost, and when he stood bare-headed in the his talkative tongue was silent. The influence of the unseen surrounded him, and, like Moses, he was inclined to put off his shoes, "for this is holy ground," murmured his heart.
 
Glancing at his companion, Tempest was surprised to see his usually pale and calm face working with emotion and covered with blushes.
 
"You are unwell, Mr Pratt?" he asked in a low tone befitting the place.
 
The man , "No—that is, I feel that—well, no matter." He controlled himself by a powerful effort and laughed. Tempest was not shocked. He was shrewd enough to see that the merriment was artificial and designed to cloak a deeper feeling. But the laughter was reproved in a most unexpected fashion.
 
"The joy of the is as the passing smoke," said a high, sweet voice.
 
Pratt started in surprise, and looked around. He saw the jewelled windows shining through the dim of the church, the white cloth on the altar, and the of a silver crucifix, in the faint light of tall candles. But who had spoken he could not guess, as no one was in sight. Mr Tempest, however, had recognised the voice.
 
"Is that you, Pearl?" he called out softly.
 
From behind the altar emerged a girl of eighteen, though in looks and she was a child. She was small and delicately formed, and on her thin white face there was a vacant look as of one whose wits were astray. No intelligence shone through her dark eyes, but a mystical light burned in their depths. Like Kilmeny, she had been to fairyland, and had seen things which had lifted her above the common lot of mortals. Therefore upon her face there shone the light that never was on sea or land. And, enough, she was dressed in a green gown—the fairy's colour. Round her straw hat was twisted a wreath of oak leaves. When she appeared her arms were full of flowers.
 
"You are decorating the altar, Pearl," said the vicar, .
 
"I am making ready the House for the Master's coming," replied the girl in her silvery voice, "but He will here but a little time." She to the groined roof of black oak. "That shuts out His Home," said Pearl, , "and He loves not to dwell in darkness."
 
"Darkness and light are the same to Him, Pearl. But go on with your work, my child. You have beautiful flowers I see."
 
"I gathered them in the woods before dawn, when the dew was yet on them. And see, I have got these to put into the pots. The flowers will be quite fresh to-morrow for morning service. Then they will die," added the girl, heaving a sigh, "die, as we all must."
 
"To rise again in the light of Heaven, child."
 
Pearl shook her black locks and turning back to the altar began to arrange the flowers. When passing and re-passing she never forgot to bend the knee. Pratt observed this. "Is she a Roman Catholic?" Mr Tempest smiled. "She does only what I have taught her," he said. "I am what is called[18] High Church, Mr Pratt, and believe in a beautiful ritual. To the service of God we should bring all lovely things, and perform all solemn acts of and . That," said Tempest, pointing to the white-covered altar, "is a symbol of the Unseen Power, and so those who approach it should acknowledge its solemn meaning."
 
Pratt his shoulders. The vicar was talking of things too high for his comprehension. He looked at the mad girl decorating the altar. "I suppose the villagers think a great deal of this church," he said.
 
"It is the most precious possession we have," replied Tempest, reverently, "and it is all that to us of the beautiful and sacred things created by the faith of our . There were many for the altar, Mr Pratt; but these were melted down by the Gabriel who fought for the first Charles in order to help his king. I would we had a communion service as beautiful as this shrine," and Mr Tempest sighed.
 
The remark gave Pratt an idea. He wanted to obtain the of the villagers seeing he had come amongst them to pass his days in peace. If they loved their church so much they would approve of anyone who helped to decorate it. "I am not rich," he said slowly, "and I can't give you a whole service such as you want. But I should like to present this chapel with a communion cup. I have in my travels collected many beautiful things, Mr Tempest. Amongst others a golden cup of Roman workmanship which[19] I obtained in Italy. It is a splendid example of the jeweller's art, and would look well on that table."
 
"On the altar," corrected Tempest, at the sound of the word which he connected with the Low Church party. "It is more than good of you, Mr Pratt. We must talk the matter over. I do not accept gifts lightly, especially for the service of the Church. But come, let us look at the tombs. Then we can go to ."
 
Pratt said no more, but made up his mind that the cup of which he should figure on the altar. He had a vague kind of idea that he could buy if he gave so splendid a present. If the vicar proved difficult to deal with, he resolved to ask for Mrs Gabriel's help. As the lady of the , she could insist upon the acceptance of the offering. There was no reason why Tempest should refuse it, but Pratt knew that the old man was—as he phrased it—queer, and one never knew what objection he might make. If he thought that the cup was given only to secure the goodwill of the parish he would certainly refuse it. A gift made in such a spirit could not be accepted by the Church.
 
Meanwhile he examined the tombs of the crusading Gabriels, which he had seen often before. But the vicar made the present visit more acceptable by recounting the legends connected with each recumbent figure. The tombs were three in number, and occupied what was called the Ladye's Chapel. Their sides were richly with the Gabriel and with decorations of scallop shells to denote that those who rested below had been to the Holy Land. The figures of the brave were cross-legged, and their hands rested on the pommels of their huge swords. Considering the of time, they were in a wonderful state of . Pratt looked upon them with a sigh, and the vicar inquired the reason of his sadness.
 
"I was thinking of the glory of having such ancestors," said Pratt, and Mr Tempest noticed that his Yankee twang and mode of expressing himself had quite disappeared. "I would give anything to come of such a line—to have a that had been in the possession of my race for centuries, and to have traditions which I could live up to. I am a lonely man, Mr Tempest," he added, with some , "no one cares for me. I never had a home, or a family, or a position in the world. All my life I have had to fight for my own hand, and for years I have been a rolling stone. Money, yes! I have made money, but I would give it all," and he pointed to the crusaders, "if I could call those my ancestors."
 
Mr Tempest looked surprised. "I did not expect to hear such views from the mouth of a Republican," he said, "for, as you are an American, I presume you hold by the political faith of Washington."
 
"I don't hold by anything in particular," replied Pratt, recovering himself, as they left the chapel. "I am unfettered by sectarian prejudices. You can call me a , Mr Tempest. But we can talk of these things on some other occasion. You must come to see me. I have furnished The Nun's House, and have got out my collection of rare and curious things. Will you and Miss Tempest dine with me next week?"
 
"I rarely go out," replied the vicar; "however, I will see what Sybil says. If she is willing, I will come with pleasure."
 
"Oh, Miss Tempest will be willing," said Pratt, significantly. "Leo Haverleigh is coming to dine also!"
 
"They are very good friends," said the vicar, simply. No thought of what Pratt meant entered his mind.
 
At the Vicarage they were met by Sybil and the curate, who had been talking to her about parish affairs for the greater part of the morning. At once Raston drew aside his ecclesiastical superior, and the two went into the library, leaving Sybil to entertain the American. She was not to doing this, as she liked Mr Pratt and his merry conversation. Having recovered from the emotion caused by the atmosphere of the chapel, the man was more pronouncedly Yankee than ever. He described his walk with the vicar, and repeated his invitation to dinner. "Mrs Gabriel and Mr Haverleigh are coming," he said, "and I shall also ask Sir Frank Hale and his sister."
 
Sybil smiled on hearing that Leo was to be present, but her brow clouded over when she heard about the baronet and Miss Hale. She did not like that young woman, and Pratt knew the cause. It was not unconnected with Leo. He was the prize for which these young ladies strove. Miss Hale was very much in love with the young man, and so was Sibyl, but he cared more for the vicar's daughter than for Miss Hale. The two girls guessed each other's feelings, and disliked one another accordingly. This might not have been proper, but it was human. However, Sibyl was too much a woman of the world to show Pratt what she felt, and she accepted his invitation calmly enough. "I shall be delighted to come," she said, "but I can't answer for my father."
 
"Oh, I have something to him," said Pratt, easily, "and I think you will be pleased also, Miss Tempest." And thereupon he told the girl of his proposed gift. "The cup is over a thousand years old," he explained. "It belongs to the time of the Cæsars."
 
"From all I have heard of them," said Sybil, bluntly, "I don't think a of their manufacture ought to serve for a ceremony."
 
"On the contrary, the cup will be sanctified by being put to such a good use," said Pratt, "and you can set your mind at rest, Miss Tempest. I got the cup from the church of a little Italian town, where it served for a . It has been used in the service of the Romish Church for ages."
 
"In that case I am sure my father will be delighted to accept it. He is anxious to get some vessels for the chapel altar. It is very good of you to give the cup, Mr Pratt."
 
"Not at all. It is better put to such use than in my collection. However, you will see all my curios when you come. Mr Haverleigh has already seen them."
 
"He told me about them yesterday. I only hope Mr Haverleigh will be here next week. He said something about going away."
 
"Why is he going away?" Pratt his keen eyes on the girl.
 
"I think he is in trouble. That is," added Sybil, hastily, "I gathered as much. But don't say I told you anything, Mr Pratt. Ah," she broke off suddenly, "here are my father and Mr Raston."
 
Pratt cast another sharp glance at her. He guessed that something was wrong with Leo, and that the young man had told her of his trouble. He wondered if the two were engaged when they were thus . Pratt took an interest in Leo, as he had known him for some years, and rather sympathised with his outbursts of youthful . He thought that marriage would steady the lad's somewhat nature, but he could not make up his mind as to whether Miss Hale or Miss Tempest was the best wife for him. However, it was useless for Pratt to worry over this, as he recognised very clearly. In the first place, it was none of his business; and in the second, Leo would certainly choose for himself.
 
"I am giving a house-warming, Mr Raston," said Pratt during luncheon, "and I should like you to come to dinner. Next Thursday. I suppose in this Arcadian spot it is not necessary to give written invitations."
 
"I accept with pleasure," replied Raston, quite ignorant that Pratt wished to him on his side in getting the vicar to accept the cup; "but as to written invitations—what do you say, Miss Tempest?"
 
"Oh, those are most necessary," laughed Sybil. "We are very particular in this part of the world."
 
"I am an American, you see, Miss Tempest, and I don't know your English way of doing things. But the invitations shall be written in due form. I guess it is as well to humour the prejudice of folks."
 
"If you wish to be popular," said the vicar, "you must do so here."
 
"As I intend to die in this part of the world, I must get on with the crowd somehow. I am not accustomed to be , and that is what your people here are doing."
 
"Oh, no!" cried Sybil, much , "they are only waiting to know you better, Mr Pratt. In a year you will be quite friendly with them."
 
"I'm friendly with them now," said Pratt, dryly, "it is they who hold off."
 
"We are slow to make friendships here," said Raston, "but when we do accept a friend we stick to him always."
 
"You are a native of these parts, Mr Raston?"
 
"I was born and bred here."
 
"It is I who am the stranger," put in Mr Tempest, "and it was a long time before my parishioners took to me."
 
"You are adored now, papa," said Sybil, with a bright glance.
 
"And someone else is adored also," put in Pratt. Sybil flushed at the compliment. She thought it was in bad taste.
 
After a time the conversation turned on Pearl Darry, and Raston, who was deeply interested in her, gave them some insight into the girl's mind. "She does not care for churches built by hands," he said. "If she had her way she would take the altar into the middle of the moor and worship there. I think she feels under a roof."
 
"Ha!" said Pratt, with a swift glance, remembering Mrs Jeal, "is she of gipsy blood? She looks like it."
 
"No. Her dark comes from blood," explained Sybil. "Her father, Peter Darry, was a stone mason. He is dead now—died through drink. While working in Perth he married a farmer's daughter. They came back here and Pearl was born. Then her mother died and her father treated her badly. Mrs Jeal rescued her, and Peter fell over a cliff while drunk."
 
"Mrs Jeal is a good woman," said Tempest, mechanically.
 
"Do you that statement, Miss Tempest?"
 
Sybil looked at Pratt who had spoken. "I think Mrs Jeal was very good to take charge of Pearl," she said evasively, whereat Pratt smiled to himself. He saw that Sybil did not like the woman, and admired her insight.
 
Mr Pratt was to deliver all his invitations verbally. On his way home after the vicar's luncheon he met with a rider on a roan horse. This was a fair, handsome young man with a clear skin, a pair of bright blue eyes and a sunny look on his face. He had a good figure, and rode admirably. Horse and man made a picture as they came up the road. Pratt waved his hands and the rider pulled up.
 
"How are you this morning, Haverleigh?"
 
Leo laughed. He did not wear his heart on his sleeve, and if he was worried, as Sybil , he did not show his vexation. "I am all right," he replied, with a smile. "Who could help being all right in this jolly weather? And how are you, Mr Pratt?"
 
"I am busy," responded the American, gravely. "I have been lunching with the vicar, and now I am going home to write out invitations for a dinner at my new house."
 
"Will you ask me, Mr Pratt?"
 
"I have asked Miss Tempest and I want you to come."
 
Leo laughed. Also he flushed a trifle. "It is very good of you," he said. "And who else will be at your house-warming?"
 
"Mrs Gabriel, Mr Raston, Miss Hale and her brother."
 
"Oh!" Leo looked annoyed at the mention of Miss Hale. "I am not sure if I shall be able to come," he said, after a pause.
 
"No?" Pratt's tone was quite easy. "Miss Tempest said something about your going away. But I hope you will put that off. My dear fellow"—Pratt smiled meaningly—"you can depend upon me. It is not the first time I have helped you!"
 
Haverleigh made no direct response, but sat on his saddle in deep thought. "I'll come," he said at length, and rode off .
 
"I thought you would," murmured Pratt, with a smile. He knew more about Leo Haverleigh than most people in Colester.