What was it in this face, she asked herself, that held her and gave some
rest to her tormented spirit? It reminded her of that crystal stream of
sweet and bitter memories, at Wherwell, on which she used to gaze and in
which she used to dip her hands, then to press the wetted hands to her
lips. It also reminded her of an early morning sky, seen beyond and
above the green dew-wet earth, so infinitely far away, so peaceful with
a peace that was not of this earth.
It was not then merely its beauty that made this face so much to her,
but something greater behind it, some inner grace, the peace of God in
her soul.
One day there came for the queen as a gift from some distant town a
volume of parables and fables for her entertainment. It was beautiful to
the sight, being richly bound in silk and gold embroidery; but on
opening it she soon found that there was little pleasure to be got from
it on account of the difficulty she found in reading the crabbed
handwriting. After spending some minutes in trying to decipher a
paragraph or two she threw the book in disgust on the floor.
The maid picked it up, and after a glance at the first page said it was
easy to her, and she asked if the queen would allow her to read it to
her.
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