regulated by its service.

Evadne found her lying on a couch beside an open window in the drawing
room, which was a long, low room, running the full width of the house, and
with a window at either end, one looking up the Close to the north, the
other to the south, into a high-walled, old-fashioned flower garden; and
this was the one near which Mrs. Orton Beg was lying.

"I think I should turn to the cathedral, Aunt Olive," Evadne said.

"I do," her aunt answered; "but not at this time of day. I travel round
with the sun."

"It would fill my mind with beautiful thoughts to live here," Evadne said,
looking up at the lonely spire reverently.

"I have no doubt that your mind is always full of beautiful thoughts," her
aunt rejoined, smiling. "But I know what you mean. There are thoughts
carved on those dumb gray stones which can only come to us from such a
source of inspiration. The sincerity of the old workmen, their love and
their reverence, were wrought into all they produced, and if only we hold
our own minds in the right attitude, we receive something of their grace.
Do you remember that passage of Longfellow's?--

"Ah! from what agonies of heart and brain,
What exultations trampling on despair,
What tenderness, what tears, what hate of wrong,
What passionate outcry of a soul in pain,
Uprose this poem of the earth and air,
This medieval miracle,...!