Denys rose the next morning pale and heavy-eyed. Charlie and she had arranged overnight to be out at seven to take an early stroll on the sea front, and as she dressed, Denys's thoughts were busy with how she should meet everybody, and how much or how little it was best to say about last night's cause of offence.

She was somewhat startled to find Gertrude's bright eyes fixed upon her.

"My dear Denys!" said she, "if you don't want to be the first to tell Charlie of this ridiculous affair, don't go down with that face! Look as happy as you did last night, or he will be asking questions."

Denys coloured faintly.

"I don't know what to do about it," she sighed.

"If you don't want a thing talked about, don't talk about it," answered Gertrude sagely. "If ever I am engaged and my fiancÉ's relations try sitting on me, I shall soon show them that it is a game two can play."

She stopped to laugh at some secret remembrance, and Denys's thoughts flew once again to that far-off Scotch town and the dark-haired boy with merry, twinkling eyes. Not a very auspicious remark for Reggie, who had neither father nor mother, sister nor brother!

"I'll tell you what I was laughing at," pursued Gertrude, who was most wonderfully wide awake and talkative this morning. "Do you remember Reggie's getting me a ticket to see the King give the medals for the South African War, at the Horse Guards? Reggie's cousin had a medal, you know. It was rather a crush, and of course Reggie wanted us to be in a good place, and we certainly were. Well, behind me there was a big stout woman, and oh! how she leant on me—just on my shoulders! I shall never forget the feel of it! At last I got perfectly tired of it and I thought of a plan. She was stout and soft and broad, and I just leant right back on her—on her chest. It was simply restful. After a bit, of course, I stood up properly, when I had got over the tiredness a little!"

"My dear Gertrude." Denys's laugh rang out involuntarily.

"She did not try that little dodge again," said Gertrude, laughing too. "Denys, don't put on that horrid red blouse."

"But I've nothing else!" objected Denys.

"Nothing else! Why, there's that sweet white nun's veiling. I've wanted 'the fellow to it,' as Grandma used to say when she did not wish to covet her neighbour's goods, ever since you made it. Put that on and astonish the natives and be done with it!"

Denys lifted out the white blouse obediently. It certainly suited her, and her laugh at Gertrude had brought a colour into her cheeks. She suddenly guessed that Gertrude had waked herself up on purpose to amuse her and change her thoughts and she bent quickly over the pillow and gave Gertrude's soft cheek a grateful sisterly kiss.

"Now shall I do?" she asked, straightening herself up.

"Ar," said Gertrude emphatically. "Now!" mimicking Denys's own tone, "don't be late for breakfast, my dear."

And Denys ran downstairs smiling! Gertrude had got pretty, entertaining ways. It was no wonder people liked her.

Charlie was waiting for her in the hall.

"You look as bright as the morning," he said; "isn't it delicious to be out so early?"

They strolled up and down the empty parade, enjoying themselves immensely, though every now and then a sickening fear of what the approaching breakfast hour might bring, swept over Denys. But she determined to stick to Gertrude's advice and say nothing to anyone unless positively obliged.

They turned homeward at last, and as they caught sight of the church tower, Charlie said,

"What did you think of doing this morning?"

Denys's eyes looked eager, but she thought of Mrs. Henchman and the two armchairs over the fire last night, and she hesitated to produce a plan that would monopolise Charlie for herself.

"What would you like?" she said.

"Well, I thought that you and I, at any rate, would go to church together this morning. The others, of course, must choose for themselves, but I should not feel happy to do anything else myself."

Denys's eyes lighted up.

"I am so glad," she said, "that is just what I wished."

"Mother told me about the donkey," pursued Charlie. "Poor mother, it quite put her about! So I told her I should hire a nice little wicker bath chair and I should push her, and we would all go to the Landslip this afternoon and have a nice walk together. Only we'll start at two, while the sunshine lasts, and we can get Cecil and one or two more to join us."

"That will be lovely!" said Denys, "and I will see that poor Mrs. Lyon and little Harry. Oh, I wish I had bought some grapes yesterday. I absolutely forgot that the shops would be shut."

"Oh! I'll get you some," said Charlie. "I know the back door of a greengrocer's shop, and I'll go and thump till he opens it."

They were in excellent time for breakfast, and so was Gertrude; but Denys found the meeting of her offended friends was to be an agony long drawn out, for Mrs. Henchman had sent down word that she should breakfast in bed, and that Charlie might wait upon her. Audrey was already seated behind the teapot with an aggressive little air which seemed to say, "Behold the daughter of the house," but with Charlie's eyes upon her she greeted Denys at least civilly, and she and Gertrude appeared to be on the best of terms.

By-and-by Cecil Greyburne turned up, and Denys left the three deep in discussion over the morning's plans, and went to get ready for church, calling in on Mrs. Henchman on her way upstairs.

She found her dressed on her sofa, with Charlie in an arm-chair on the opposite side of the fire; she stayed a minute or two with them and went on to her room, feeling glad that the first meeting with Mrs. Henchman was over and nothing had been said. Oh, if she could only know that nothing more would be said! Then she could try and go on cheerfully and endeavour to forget that anything disagreeable had happened.

She and Charlie found All Saints' far more crowded than they had anticipated, the result being, that as they waited with many others in the aisle, Denys found herself put into a row where there was but one seat, and she could only look helplessly on while Charlie was marched by the verger, who knew him but did not know Denys, right up to the front.

Yet, after the first moment of chagrin, Denys felt a vague relief in being alone. Alone, in a crowd, with no eyes upon her that knew her, alone with herself and God.

The prayers, the familiar Sunday prayers seemed to have a new significance on this day, under the very shadow of the cross on which He hung, for Whose Name's sake she asked forgiveness and blessing.

The Psalms, the anguished cry of the Crucified, sounded solemnly out, the very words of His lips, the awful loneliness of His heart, the unshaken faith in His God.

The lessons, the hymns, all told the same story, that the Father sent the Son to be the Saviour of the world, that now once in the end of the world, hath He appeared to put away sin by the sacrifice of Himself.

The text, again so familiar, so significant on this day, floated out through the church. This was the way—the truth—the life—indeed.

"He was wounded for our transgressions, He was bruised for our iniquities, the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and with His stripes we are healed."

It seemed as if the sermon, so gentle, so simple, so tender, held in it no human words and yet it was not a mere repetition of verse upon verse of Scripture.

As Denys sat with her eyes rivetted on Mr. Owen's face, she felt as if she had never even guessed before at the depth of Christ's salvation, that she had only touched the fringe of the knowledge of the love of Christ which passeth knowledge.

She rose with the congregation and sang it with her whole heart, sang it through its verses till they came to the fourth verse, and she sang that, too, thinking not so much of its words as of the love she felt for that Prince of Glory—

Her soul—her life—how gladly she gave them once more to Him for his service!

And then—in one instant—she came back to the things of earth, and so to another thought—her all! A movement about her had brought Charlie into her view. She saw him before her with a ray of sunlight resting across his fair head.

Her all! The whole realm of nature, in her eyes! She remembered again the blissful content, the undreamed of happiness, his presence had brought to her yesterday. She remembered with a shiver how that perfection of joy, which had seemed so unassailable, had been shattered in a moment by a word of her own, which had given offence where none was meant, by a care for others which had been resented.

She knew in a flash that the cause of her unending tears, of her heart-sickness ever since, had been the fear of Charlie's anger, the fear that, be the reason great or small, she should forfeit his affection and cease to be all the world to him.

She did not stop to think how much she was wronging Charlie's faithful love. She was oblivious for the moment of everything but this fear. She had been fighting fiercely since last night against the bare thought of the possibility of losing Charlie's love; she had been holding on to that love as for her life, and now another love, a love higher, wider, deeper the love that passeth knowledge, had risen up before her and claimed—her all.

The thoughts passed through her mind with the swiftness of a dream, as, instinctively following the movements of those about her, she stood there with her eyes fixed upon Charlie, while the slow procession of the choir filed out and the organ sounded plaintively among the high arches.

She seemed only to see Charlie—her all—the whole realm of nature which at that moment she did possess—how the thought thrilled her—she saw him on one side and her crucified Saviour waiting on the other.

Waiting—for what?

Her soul—her life? She had given them. Ah! for something more—her all! The congregation around her were passing out. She sank slowly on to her knees and hid her face. The Love which had given its all for her had conquered.

With her all, she knelt at His feet, and kneeling there she broke her box of ointment of spikenard, very precious, and poured it out.

The church was almost empty when she rose and passed out. Charlie was waiting for her in the porch, and Audrey, Gertrude and Cecil were on the steps. Audrey slipped her arm into Denys's. "Wasn't it nice? Didn't you like it?" she whispered.

"Very much, oh, very much!" Denys answered. "I did not know you were all there."

She gave her arm a little answering pressure. This was the Audrey she had known at Saltmarsh!

"That was Cecil," said Audrey gravely. "He said that when there were so many who didn't care, we, who do care, ought to show that we cared! So, of course, we went."

When the afternoon came, it was a pleasant and united little party which set out for the walk to the Landslip. As Gertrude observed serenely—

"With neither donkeys nor bicycles we ought to do quite nicely!" and quite nicely they did, Mrs. Henchman arriving in such good condition and spirits that she proposed walking a short distance to see the view while tea was being got ready.

Denys held up the little basket of grapes Charlie had given her.

"I will take these in to Mrs. Lyon while you are gone," she said.

She tapped softly at Mrs. Lyon's door, and before any answer came, the woman with whom she had left her note on the previous day, opened her kitchen door with a scared look in her face.

"Oh, Miss!" she said. "Oh, Miss! don't tell any one, but she's gone! Poor dear, she's gone!"

"Gone!" echoed Denys.

The woman burst into low, restrained weeping.

"The visitors mustn't know," she sobbed. "They are afraid of death, but I've been longing and hoping for you all day, Miss. Poor dear, poor dear, she died last night."