In Spite of All: A Novel

by Edna Lyall

Not in the ashes of the burnt-out mind,

But beautiful with danger’s sweetness round her,

Where faith made whole with deed

Breathes its awakening breath

Into the lifeless creed;

They saw her plumed and mailed,

With sweet, stem face unveiled,

And all-repaying eyes look proud on them in death.

—Lowell.

There had been a heavy fall of snow in Hereford during the night, but the south walk in Dr. Harford’s garden had been swept, and the still, frosty air and mid-day sunshine made the place as pleasant a playground as could be wished. The merry voices of a boy and girl had rung for the last half-hour in the pleasance, and the joys of snowballing were far too keen to allow the little couple to notice even for a moment the beauty of the wintry scene, with the rime-covered trees and bushes bordering the river, and in the background the cathedral, its massive tower surmounted in those seventeenth century days by a lofty spire covered with lead which glittered in the bright sunshine.