The sound, with
all its weight of association, sank and echoed through the morning
stillness; the fells repeated it, a voice of worship toward God, of
appeal toward man.
In Tatham, fashioned to the appeal by all the accidents of blood and
nurture, the sound made for a deepened spirit and a steadied mood. He
pressed on toward the little house and garden that now began to show
through the trees.
Lydia had not long come downstairs when she heard the horse at the gate.
The cottage breakfast was nominally at half-past eight. But Mrs. Penfold
never appeared, and Susy was always professionally late, it being
understood that inspiration--when it alights--is a midnight visitant, and
must be wooed at suitable hours.
Lydia was generally down to the minute, and read prayers to their two
maids. Mrs. Penfold made a great point of family prayers, but rarely or
never attended them. Susy did not like to be read to by anybody. Lydia
therefore had the little function to herself. She chose her favourite
psalms, and prayers from the most various sources. The maids liked it
because they loved Lydia; and Lydia, having once begun, would not
willingly have given it up.
But the ceremony was over; and she had just opened the casement to see
who their visitor might be, when Tatham rode up to the porch.
"May I speak to you for ten minutes?"
His aspect warned her of things unusual. He tied up his horse, and she
took him into their little sitting-room, and closed the door.
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