“You see, dear people,” continued Polly, “it is really the only thing that I know how to do; and I have had several months’ experience, so that I ’m not entirely untrained.  I ’m not afraid any more, so long as it is only children; though the presence of one grown person makes me tongue-tied.  Grown-up people never know how to listen, somehow, and they make you more conscious of yourself.  But when the children gaze up at you with their shining eyes and their parted lips,—­the smiles just longing to be smiled and the tear-drops just waiting to glisten,—­I don’t know what there is about it, but it makes you wish you could go on forever and never break the spell.  And it makes you tremble, too, for fear you should say anything wrong.  You seem so close to children when you are telling them stories; just as if a little, little silken thread spun itself out from one side of your heart through each of theirs, until it came back to be fastened in your own again; and it holds so tight, so tight, when you have done your best and the children are pleased and grateful.”

For days after this discussion Polly felt as if she were dwelling on a mysterious height from which she could see all the kingdoms of the earth.  She said little and thought much (oh, that this should come to be written of Polly Oliver!).  The past which she had regretted with such passionate fervor still fought for a place among present plans and future hopes.  But she was almost convinced in these days that a benevolent Power might after all be helping her to work out her own salvation in an appointed way, with occasional weariness and tears, like the rest of the world.

It was in such a softened mood that she sat alone in church one Sunday afternoon at vespers.  She had chosen a place where she was sure of sitting quietly by herself, and where the rumble of the organ and the words of the service would come to her soothingly.  The late afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, bringing out the tender blue on the Madonna’s gown, the white on the wings of angels and robes of newborn innocents, the glow of rose and carmine, with here and there a glorious gleam of Tyrian purple.  Then her eyes fell on a memorial window opposite her.  A mother bowed with grief was seated on some steps of rough-hewn stones.  The glory of her hair swept about her knees.  Her arms were empty; her hands locked; her head bent.  Above stood a little child, with hand just extended to open a great door, which was about to unclose and admit him.  He reached up his hand fearlessly ("and that is faith,” thought Polly), and at the same time he glanced down at his weeping mother, as if to say, “Look up, mother dear!  I am safely in.”

Just then the choir burst into a grand hymn which was new to Polly, and which came to her with the force of a personal message:—­

  “The Son of God goes forth to war,
    A kingly crown to gain;
  His blood-red banner streams afar—­
    Who follows in His train? 
  Who best can drink his cup of woe,
    Triumphant over pain,
  Who patient bears his cross below,
    He follows in His train.”