Theron nodded his head comprehendingly.  He had a great many views about the Romanish rite of confession which did not at all square with this statement of the case, but this did not seem a specially fit time for bringing them forth.  There was indeed a sense of languid repletion in his mind, as if it had been overfed and wanted to lie down for awhile.  He contented himself with nodding again, and murmuring reflectively, “Yes, it is all strangely different.”

His tone was an invitation to silence; and the doctor turned his attention to the cigar, studying its ash for a minute with an air of deep meditation, and then solemnly blowing out a slow series of smoke-rings.  Theron watched him with an indolent, placid eye, wondering lazily if it was, after all, so very pleasant to smoke.

There fell upon this silence—­with a softness so delicate that it came almost like a progression in the hush—­the sound of sweet music.  For a little, strain and source were alike indefinite—­an impalpable setting to harmony of the mellowed light, the perfumed opalescence of the air, the luxury and charm of the room.  Then it rose as by a sweeping curve of beauty, into a firm, calm, severe melody, delicious to the ear, but as cold in the mind’s vision as moonlit sculpture.  It went on upward with stately collectedness of power, till the atmosphere seemed all alive with the trembling consciousness of the presence of lofty souls, sternly pure and pitilessly great.

Theron found himself moved as he had never been before.  He almost resented the discovery, when it was presented to him by the prosaic, mechanical side of his brain, that he was listening to organ-music, and that it came through the open window from the church close by.  He would fain have reclined in his chair and closed his eyes, and saturated himself with the uttermost fulness of the sensation.  Yet, in absurd despite of himself, he rose and moved over to the window.

Only a narrow alley separated the pastorate from the church; Mr. Ware could have touched with a walking-stick the opposite wall.  Indirectly facing him was the arched and mullioned top of a great window.  A dim light from within shone through the more translucent portions of the glass below, throwing out faint little bars of party-colored radiance upon the blackness of the deep passage-way.  He could vaguely trace by these the outlines of some sort of picture on the window.  There were human figures in it, and—­yes—­up here in the centre, nearest him, was a woman’s head.  There was a halo about it, engirdling rich, flowing waves of reddish hair, the lights in which glowed like flame.  The face itself was barely distinguishable, but its half-suggested form raised a curious sense of resemblance to some other face.  He looked at it closely, blankly, the noble music throbbing through his brain meanwhile.

“It’s that Madden girl!” he suddenly heard a voice say by his side.  Dr. Ledsmar had followed him to the window, and was close at his shoulder.