“Leader and Giver; it is the one revelation of Scripture, from beginning to end,” said Mr. Vireo. “’Come forth into the land that I shall show thee.’  ’Follow Me, and I will give unto you everlasting life.’  The same call in the Old Testament and in the New.”

“‘One Lord, one faith, one baptism,’” repeated Miss Euphrasia.

“Leading—­by the hand; giving—­morsel by morsel,” said Mr. Kirkbright, emphasizing the near and dear detail.

“That makes me think,” said Miss Euphrasia, suddenly.  “Desire,” she went on, without explaining why, “we are going up to Brickfield Farms next week, Christopher and I. Why shouldn’t you go too,—­and bring her home, you know?”

As true as she lived, Miss Euphrasia hadn’t a thought—­whatever you may think—­of this and that, or anything, when she said it.

Except the simple fact, that it was beautiful October weather, and that she should like it, and that Sylvie and Desire would get acquainted.

“It will do you good.  You’d better,” said Mr. Vireo, kindly.

Christopher Kirkbright said nothing, of course.  There was nothing for him to say.  He did not think very much.  He only had a passing feeling that it would be pleasant to see this grave-faced girl again, and to understand her, perhaps, a little.

CHAPTER XV.

BONNY BOWLS.

The great show house at Pomantic was almost finished.  The architect’s and builder’s cares were over.  There was a stained glass window to go in upon the high second landing of the splendid carved oak staircase, through which gold and rose and purple light should pour down upon the panels of the soft-tinted walls and the rich inlaying of the floors.  There was a little polishing of walnut work and oiling of dark pine in kitchen and laundry, and the fastening on of a few silver knobs and faucets here and there, up-stairs, remaining to be done; then it would be ready for the upholsterer.

Mr. Newrich had builded better than he thought; thanks to the delicate taste and the genius of his architect, and the careful skill of his contractor.  He was proud of his elegant mansion, and fancied that it expressed himself, and the glory that his life had grown to.

Frank Sunderline knew that it expressed him-self; for he had put himself—­his hope, his ambition, his sense of right and fitness—­into every stroke and line.  Now that it was done, it was more his than the man’s who paid the bills,—­“out of his waistcoat pocket,” as he exultingly said to his wife.  The designer and the builder had paid for it out of brain and heart and will, and were the real men who had got a new creation and possession of their own, though they should turn their backs upon their finished labor, and never go within the walls again.

It was a kind of a Sunday feeling with which Frank Sunderline was glad, though it was the middle of the week.  The sense of accomplishment is the Sunday feeling.  It is the very feeling in which God Himself rested; and out of his own joy, bade all his sons rest likewise in their turn, every time that they should end a six days’ toil.