loved her remained with Madge perpetually.

To obtain relief she often went out of London for the day; sometimes
her mother and sister went with her; sometimes she insisted on going
alone. One autumn morning, she found herself at Letherhead, the
longest trip she had undertaken, for there were scarcely any railways
then. She wandered about till she discovered a footpath which took
her to a mill-pond, which spread itself out into a little lake. It
was fed by springs which burst up through the ground. She watched at
one particular point, and saw the water boil up with such force that
it cleared a space of a dozen yards in diameter from every weed, and
formed a transparent pool just tinted with that pale azure which is
peculiar to the living fountains which break out from the bottom of
the chalk. She was fascinated for a moment by the spectacle, and
reflected upon it, but she passed on. In about three-quarters of an
hour she found herself near a church, larger than an ordinary village
church, and, as she was tired, and the gate of the church porch was
open, she entered and sat down. The sun streamed in upon her, and
some sheep which had strayed into the churchyard from the adjoining
open field came almost close to her, unalarmed, and looked in her
face. The quiet was complete, and the air so still, that a yellow
leaf dropping here and there from the churchyard elms--just beginning
to turn--fell quiveringly in a straight path to the earth. Sick at
heart and despairing, she could not help being touched, and she
thought to herself how strange the world is--so transcendent both in
glory and horror; a world capable of such scenes as those before her,
and a world in which such suffering as hers could be; a world
infinite both ways. The porch gate was open because the organist was
about to practise, and in another instant she was listening to the
Kyrie from Beethoven's Mass in C. She knew it; Frank had tried to