What can I answer you, my golden one?
Only, in voice low as your own, breathe that the world is barren but for you, that to the last drop of my heart's blood I love and worship you! A poor girl, a worker with her hands, untaught--you say that?
A woman, pure of soul, with loveliness for your heritage, with possibilities imaginable in every ray of your eyes, in every note of the rare music of your voice!' Even so.

In the meantime, this happens to be Westminster Abbey, where a working man, one Gilbert Grail, has often walked and sought solace from the bitterness of his accursed lot, where he has thought of a young girl who lives above him in the house, and who, as often as she passes him, is like a gleam of southern sky somehow slipped into the blank hideousness of a London winter.

Hither he has doubtless come to try and realise that fate has been so merciful to him that he longs to thank some unknown deity and cry that all is good.

Hither he will come again, with one whom he calls his wife-- Walter rose and went forth, went home.
He had not been ten minutes in his room, when a servant appeared, to tell him that a lady had called and desired to see him, her name Mrs.
Ormonde.
She came in, looking bright and noble as ever, giving him both her hands.
'I am glad to see you.

I did not expect you to-day.