pushed it open, and they passed suddenly out of the
hurrying crowd into the solemn silence of an ancient
dingy building. A dim light fell through a noble window
of the thirteenth century upon cheap wooden pews. The
church was empty, and had that curious significance and
half-spoken message of its own which belongs to a vacant
house.

"I remember," whispered Frances, awestruck. "This was
built by the first Christian convert, St. Ethelburga."

"You believe every thing, mother!" said George irritably.
She wandered about, looking at the sombre walls and
inscriptions, and then back uneasily, to his moody face.

Suddenly she came up to him as he stood leaning against
a pillar. "Something has happened!" she said. "You did
not bring me here to look at the church. You have
something to tell me."

The young man looked at her and turned away. "Yes, I
have. It isn't a death," he said, with a nervous laugh.
"You need not look in that way. It is--something
very different. I--I was married in this church
yesterday to Lisa Arpent."

Frances did not at first comprehend the great disaster
that bulked black across her whole life, but, woman-like,
grasped at a fragment of it.