was thinking how of old time Christ appeared in the breaking of
bread to the disciples whose eyes were holden. And to-night, John,
as I have been rocking baby to sleep I have been reading Tennyson's
Holy Grail, and thinking how often, in our modern life, Calabad and
Percivale kneel at the same shrine, and how often what is but a
memorial service to the one affords a beatific vision of a living
and life-giving Lord to the other."

And Jennie repeated in a low soft voice a verse from that strange
poem, whose meaning, I sometimes think, is but half understood even
by its admirers:

"And at the sacring of the Mass, I saw
The holy elements alone: but he
'Saw ye no more? I, Galahad, saw the Grail,
The Holy Grail, descend upon the shrine:
I saw the fiery face as of a child
That smote itself into the bread, and went,
And hither am I come; and never yet
Hath what thy sister taught me first to see
This holy thing, failed from my side?'"

"Ah! yes, John, Father Hyacinthe is mistaken, and Mr. Work is
mistaken too. There is more in our communion than can be explained.
The reason is a great deal, a great deal, but it is not everything.
And there are experiences which it can neither understand nor
interpret. Baby is not only up-stairs, John; he is in my heart of
hearts. And you are never away from home, husband mine, though often
in the city, but are always with me. And my Saviour he is not far
away, he is not in the heaven that we must bring him down, nor in