So it speaks to the distant through space and time; but it speaks also to the near.

Although not half risen out of the earth, encumbering it rough and shapeless, already it draws into its service many who dwell around.  These seek to cast their weaknesses on its strength, to join their brief day to its innumerable years, to fall into the spiritual splendor of it as out in space small darkened wanderers drop into the orbit of a sun.  Anguished memories begin to bequeath their jewels to its shrine; dimmed eyes will their tears to its eyes, its windows.  Old age with one foot in the grave drags the other resignedly about its crypt.  In its choir sound the voices of children herded in from the green hillside of life’s April.

* * * * *

Rachel Truesdale!  Her life became one of these near-by lives which it blesses, a darkened wanderer caught into the splendor of a spiritual sun.  It gathered her into its service; it found useful work for her to do; and in this new life of hers it drew out of her nature the last thing that is ever born of the mother—­faith that she is separated a little while from her children only because they have received the gift of eternal youth.

Many a proud happy thought became hers as time went on.  She had had her share in its glory, for it had needed him whom she had brought into the world.  It had called upon him to help give song to its message and to build that ever-falling rainbow of music over which human Hope walks into the eternal.

Always as the line of white-clad choristers passed down the aisle, among them was one who brushed tenderly against her as he walked by, whom no one else saw.  Rising above the actual voices and heard by her alone, up to the dome soared a voice dearer, more thrilling, than the rest.

Often she was at her window, watching the workmen at their toil as they brought out more and more the great shape on the heights.  Often she stood looking across at the park hillside opposite.  Whenever spring came back and the slope lived again with young leaves and white blossoms, always she thought of him.  Always she saw him playing in an eternal April.  When autumn returned and leaves withered and dropped, she thought of herself.

Sometimes standing beside his piano.

Having always in her face the look of immortal things.

* * * * *

The cathedral there on its rock for ages saying: 

“I am the Resurrection and the Life.”

THE END