But, all the time, Narcissus felt that Alice’s great eyes were on him, glowing with glad surprise.  The service proceeded, but yet he forbore to seek her.  He took a delight in husbanding his coming joy.  He would not crudely snatch it.  It would be all the sweeter for waiting.  And the fire in Alice’s eyes would all the time be growing softer and softer.  He nearly looked as he thought of that.  And surely that was her dear voice calling to him in the secret language of the psalm.  He sang back to her with a wild rapture.  Thus the morning stars sang together, he thought.

And when the prayers laid lovely hands across the eyes of the worshippers, still he sought not Alice, but prayed for her as perhaps only a boy can:  O Lord God, be good to Alice—­already she is one of thy angels.  May her life be filled with light and joy!  And if in the time to come I am worthy of being ever by her side, may we live our lives together, high and pure and holy as always in thy sight!  Lord, thou knowest how pure is my love; how I worship her as I worship the holy angels themselves.  But whatsoever is imperfect perfect by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit....

So prayed the soul of the boy for the soul of the girl, and his eyes filled with tears as he prayed; the cup of the wonder and holiness of the world ran over.

Already, it seemed, that Alice and he lay clasped together in the arms of God.

So Narcissus prayed and sang his love in terms of an alien creed.  He sang of the love of Christ, he thought but of the love of Alice; and still he refrained from plucking that wonderful passion-flower of her glance.

At length he had waited the whole service through; and, with the last hallowed vibrations of the benediction, he turned his eyes, brimful of love-light, greedily, eagerly, fearful lest one single ray should be wasted on intermediate and irrelevant worshippers.

Wonderful eyes of love!—­but alas! where is their Alice?  Wildly they glance along the rosy ranks of chubby girlhood, but where is their Alice?

And then the ranks form in line, and once more the sound, the ecstatic sound it had seemed but a short time before, of girls marching—­but no!—­no!—­there is no Alice.

In sick despair Narcissus stalked that Amazonian battalion, crouching behind hedges, dropping into by-lanes, lurking in coppices,—­he held his breath as they passed two and two within a yard of him.  Two followed two, but still no Alice!

Narcissus lay in wait, dinnerless, all that afternoon; he walked about that dreary house like a patrol, till at last he was observed of the inmates, and knots of girls gathered at the windows—­alas! only to giggle at his forlorn and desperate appearance.

Still there was no Alice ... and then it began to rain, and he became aware how hungry he was.  So he returned to his inn with a sad heart.

And all the time poor little Alice lay in bed with a sore throat, oblivious of those passionate boyish eyes that, you would have thought, must have pierced the very walls of her seclusion.