did. By-and-by, when the near and the far assume their true

proportions, I may know all about it; but not just now. At present that drive to Tintern is very dim to me. But not my visit to Tintern itself. Was I heartless? It is possible, if I say here that the beauty of Tintern gave me pleasure on that day. If I say that this was the case, then some, who don't understand, may call me heartless. For when I entered the old ruin of Tintern my heart did throb with a great burst of joy.

I had always loved beautiful things--God's world had always a power over me. In my naughty fits as a child, I had sat on the edge of a cliff, gazed down at the waves, and grown quiet. However rebellious I had been when I went there, I had usually returned, in half-an-hour, penitent; ready to humble myself in the _very_ dust for my sins. Not all the voices of all the men and women I knew, could affect me as nature could. For six months now, I had been living in a very ugly country--a country so barren and so desolate, that this longing in me was nearly starved; but even at Ffynon I had found, in my eager wanderings, now and then, a little gurgling stream--now and then, some pretty leaves and tufts of grass, and these had ministered to me. Still the country was ugly, and the place black and barren--what a change to the banks of the Wye, and the ruins of Tintern. When I entered the Abbey, I became conscious for the first time that the day was a spring one--soft, sunshiny, and bright. I looked around me for a moment, almost giddy with surprise and delight; then I turned to David, and laid my hand on his arm.

"May I sit here," pointing to a stone at the right side of the ruin, "may I sit here and think, and not speak to any one for half-an-hour?"

I was conscious that David's eyes were smiling into mine.

"You may sit there and lose yourself for half-an-hour, little woman, but not longer, I will come back for you in half-an-hour."

When David left me, I pulled out my watch; it was past three, in half-an-hour I would tell him.

But for half-an-hour I would give myself up to the joy--no, that is the wrong word--to the peace that was stealing over me. I have said that I was not practically religious. Had anybody asked me, I should have answered, "No, no, I have a worldly heart;" but sitting there in the ruins, the longing for God rose to a strange and passionate intensity. Last night I had said "My Father," with the faint cry of a hardly acknowledged belief. I said it again now, with the satisfied sound of a child. The words brought me great satisfaction, and the sense of a very present help, for my present need.

The bright sunlight flickered on the green grass. I sat back, clasped my hands and watched it. A light breeze stirred the dark ivy that twined round the ruins, some cows were feeding in the shade under the western window outside--I could see their reflections--two men, of the acknowledged tourist stamp, were perambulating on the walls; these men and the happy dumb creatures were the only living things I saw. But I did not want life just then, the lesson I needed and was learning was the lesson of the dead. I had looked at a little dead child that morning, now I looked at the dead work of centuries. The same thought came to me in connection with both--God did it; the old monks of Tintern are with God, little David is with God. To be with God must be for good, not for evil to His creatures. If only then by death we can get quite away to God, even death must be good.

It is a dreadful thing when we can only see the evil of an act; once the good, however faintly, appears, then the light comes in. The light came back to me now, and I felt it possible that I could tell David about the death of the child. Meanwhile I let my soul and imagination rest in the loveliness before me. Here was not only the beauty of flower and grass, of tree, and sky, and river, but here also was the wonderful beauty God put long ago into the hearts of men. It grew in chancel, and aisle, and pillar, and column. The minds may have conceived, but the hearts must have given depth and meaning to the conception. The mind is great, but the heart is greater. I saw the hearts of the old monks had been at work here. No doubt they fasted, and wrestled in prayer, and had visions, some of them, as they reared this temple, of another and greater built without hands. The many-tinted walls of the New Jerusalem may have been much in their thoughts as the light of their painted windows streamed on their heads when they knelt to pray.

Yes, they were dead, their age with its special characteristics was gone, their Abbey was in ruins, their story was a story of long ago. The old monks were dead, gone, some of them, to a world where a narrow vision will extend into perfect knowledge, where the Father whom they dimly sought will fully reveal Himself.

"David," I said, when David returned and seated himself by my side, "it is beautiful, but it is dead, I can only think of the dead here."

"Yes, my dear, the story of the old monks does return to one."

David too looked very peaceful. I could tell him. I pulled out my watch, I had a few moments yet.

"Do you remember, David, what you said once about music, and high hills, or mountains; you said they lifted you up, and made you feel better, do you feel that here?"

"Yes, dear, I feel near God," he took off his hat as he spoke, "I think God comes close to us in such a beautiful scene as this, Gwladys."

"Yes," I said.

"But my thoughts are not quite with you about Tintern," he continued, "it is full of memories of the dead, of a grand past age, full of earnestness which I sometimes think we lack, still the central thought to me here is another."

"What is that?" I asked.

"_Thou remainest_," raising his head and looking up at the sky, "all others may leave us--all, home, earthly love--all may pass away, only to leave us more completely alone with God, only to fill us more with God." I was silent.

"Yes, Gwladys, that is the thought of thoughts for me at Tintern--God remains. Never with His will need we unloose our hold of the Divine hand."

I looked at my watch again, the time had nearly come for me to tell him; was he not himself making it easy?

"And God's mercies follow us so continually too, Gwladys," continued my brother; "I have had some sorrow, it is true, but still mercy has always gone with it. Think of Owen, for instance. Oh! I have wrestled in prayer for him, and been faithless. Amy often reproached me for it; she said God would make it all right for Owen, that God loved and would always love him. Dear child, how I remember her words; and now, my dear, it seems all coming true, Owen is so steady, so careful, so anxious to succeed, so much liked, he is so honourable too about that money I lent him. Not that _I_ care for it, not in the least, but I like the feeling in the dear fellow, and he is making everything right down in the mine. When I remember how _nearly_ he was shipwrecked, and now see good hope of his yet making for the haven; I'm not quite sure yet that the love of God actuates him solely, but it will come, for God is leading him."

I looked at my watch again, it was four o'clock. I must speak.

"David," I said, "do you love God better than any one?"

The agitation in my voice must have penetrated to David's heart at once; he turned round and looked at me.

"I _do_ love Him better than any one, Gwladys; but why do you ask?"

"You would never be angry with God whatever He did?" I said, again.

"Angry? no, no; what a strange question."

"I have a reason for asking it," I said.

"Gwladys, you have been keeping something from me; what is the matter, what is wrong?"

David was excited now, he took my hand in his with a grasp which unconsciously was fierce.

"There is something wrong," I whispered.

"Something you have been keeping from me?"

"Yes."

"All day?"

"Yes."

"How dared--" checking himself--remaining silent for a second, then speaking with enforced composure.

"Tell it to me, my dear."

But I had given way, I was down on the grass, my face hidden, my sobs rending me.

"Is anything wrong with the mother? Gwladys."

"No, no, she is well."

"Or Owen?"

"No."

"The mine is all safe, there has been no accident?"

"The mine is safe."

A long pause, I was sobbing, David was breathing hard.

"It isn't, oh! my God, there is nothing wrong with the little lad?"

"It is him."

"Not dead."

"He is dead."

I raised my head now to look at David. David put out his hand to ward me back.

"Don't speak to me," he said, "don't tell me anything more about it yet. I must be alone for a little, wait here for me."

He disappeared out of the doorway, he did not return for two hours; during those two hours I prayed without ceasing for him.