midday
The little church was half decorated for Easter , though the altar had still its Lenten bareness . Something in the ordering of the place , in its colours , its scents , in the voice of the priest , in the short address he delivered after the service , dwelling in a tone of intimate emotion , the tone of the pastor to the souls he guides and knows , on the preparation needful for the Easter Eucharist , struck home to Dora . Next day she was present at the Easter festival . Never had religion spoken so touchingly to her before as through these hymns , these flowers , this incense , this Eucharistic ceremonial wherein -- being the midday celebration -- the congregation were merely hushed spectators of the most pathetic and impressive act in the religious symbolism of mankind . In the dark corner where she had hidden herself , Dora felt the throes of some new birth within her . In six weeks from that time she had been admitted , after instruction , to the Anglican communion . Thenceforward another existence began for this child of English Dissent , in whom , however , some old Celtic leaven seems to have always kept up a vague unrest , till the way of mystery and poetry was found .