the glorified martyrs in the painted windows illumined by the sunlight, could feel, could hear, were touched by human sympathy in their beatitude.  There was peace here at any rate, and perhaps strength.  What a dizzy whirl it all was in which she had been borne along!  The tones of the organ rose fuller and fuller, and now at the side entrances came pouring in children, the boys on one side, the girls on another-school children with their books and satchels, the poor children of the parish, long lines of girls and of boys, marshaled by priests and nuns, streaming in—­in frolicsome mood, and filling all the pews of the nave at the front.  They had their books out, their singing-books; at a signal they all stood up; a young priest with his baton stepped into the centre aisle; he waved his stick, Margaret heard his sweet tenor voice, and then the whole chorus of children’s voices rising and filling all the house with the innocent concord, but always above all the penetrating, soaring notes of the priest-strong, clear, persuading.  Was it not almost angelic there at the moment?  And how inspired the beautiful face of the singer leading the children!

Ah, me! it is not all of the world worldly, then.  I don’t know that the singing was very good:  it was not classical, I fear; not a voice, maybe, that priest’s, not a chorus, probably, that, for the Metropolitan.  I hear the organ is played better elsewhere.  Song after song, chorus after chorus, repeated, stopped, begun again:  it was only drilling the little urchins of the parochial schools—­little ragamuffins, I dare say, many of them.  What was there in this to touch a woman of fashion, sitting there crying in her corner?  Was it because they were children’s voices, and innocent?  Margaret did not care to check her tears.  She was thinking of her old home, of her own childhood, nay, of her girlhood—­it was not so long ago—­of her ideals then, of her notion of the world and what it would bring her, of the dear, affectionate life, the simple life, the school, the little church, her room in the cottage—­the chamber where first the realization of love came to her with the odors of May.  Was it gone, that life?—­gone or going out of her heart?  And—­great heavens! —­if her husband should be cold to her!  Was she very worldly?  Would he love her if she were as unworldly as she once was?  Why should this childish singing raise these contrasts, and put her at odds so with her own life?  For a moment I doubt not this dear girl saw herself as we were beginning to see her.  Who says that the rich and the prosperous and the successful do not need pity?

Was this a comforting hour, do you think, for Margaret in the cathedral?  Did she get any strength, I wonder?  When the singing was over and the organ ceased, and the children had filed out, she stole away also, wearily and humbly enough, and took the stage down the avenue.  It was near the dinner-hour, and Henderson, if he came, would be at home any moment.  It seemed as if she could not wait—­only to see him!