There was peace in Grace Carling’s heart for the moment, renewed strength and courage for the long ordeal through which she and her beloved were painfully passing. She knew that at this hour, yonder in the prison chapel, such a little distance away in reality, Roger himself would likewise be kneeling; and, as always at these times, they were very near to each other, in that spiritual communion which, to those who have experienced it, is a sublime and eternal fact, albeit a fact that even they can neither explain nor understand.
When she went out presently with the words of the benediction still lingering in her ears, her pale face was serene and beautiful as that of an angel.
There were very few people about at this early hour—a mild, grey morning, with the great towers of Westminster looming through the haze like those of some dim, rich city of dreams. She walked swiftly, absorbed in thought, and as she reached Buckingham Gate came face to face with Austin Starr.
“Why, what an early bird!” she said, smiling up at him.
“I’ve been around to your place with some flowers—spring flowers, that mean hope! I guessed you would be at church, and wanted you to find them to greet you,” he explained.
“That was dear of you, Austin; just like you. Have you breakfasted? No? Then come back to breakfast with me, do. You haven’t met my dear little Miss Culpepper yet.”
“Thanks, I’d like to. Is that the old lady I saw right now? She looks a real peach.”
“She’s priceless, and such a comfort to me. What a long time since I’ve seen you, Austin. I began to think you were forgetting me.”
“I couldn’t do that,” he assured her earnestly. “But I’ve been very busy and very worried. I’ll tell you all about it directly, if I may.”