Far away in a New England village, the bells were ringing for the evening meeting.

Lucy, shutting her eyes, could smell the spring scents in the church lane, could hear the droning of the opening hymn.

A vague mystical peace stole upon her, as she recalled the service; the great words of 'sin,' 'salvation,' 'righteousness,' as the Evangelical understands them, thrilled through her heart.
Then, as she rose to dress, there burst upon her through the open window the sunset blaze of the Campagna with the purple dome in its midst.

And with that came the memory of the afternoon,--of the Cardinal--and Manisty.
Very often, in these first days, it was as though her mind ached, under the stress of new thinking, like something stretched and sore.

In the New England house where she had grown up, a corner of the old-fashioned study was given up to the books of her grandfather, the divinity professor.