The soot-coated packet of pictures which he had hidden in the flue of the fireplace and in the presence of whose shameless or bashful wantonness he lay for hours sinning in thought and deed; his monstrous dreams, peopled by ape-like creatures and by harlots with gleaming jewel eyes; the foul long letters he had written in the joy of guilty confession and carried secretly for days and days only to throw them under cover of night among the grass in the corner of a field or beneath some hingeless door in some niche in the hedges where a girl might come upon them as she walked by and read them secretly.  Mad!  Mad!  Was it possible he had done these things?  A cold sweat broke out upon his forehead as the foul memories condensed within his brain.

When the agony of shame had passed from him he tried to raise his soul from its abject powerlessness.  God and the Blessed Virgin were too far from him:  God was too great and stern and the Blessed Virgin too pure and holy.  But he imagined that he stood near Emma in a wide land and, humbly and in tears, bent and kissed the elbow of her sleeve.

In the wide land under a tender lucid evening sky, a cloud drifting westward amid a pale green sea of heaven, they stood together, children that had erred.  Their error had offended deeply God’s majesty though it was the error of two children; but it had not offended her whose beauty is not like earthly beauty, dangerous to look upon, but like the morning star which is its emblem, bright and musical.  The eyes were not offended which she turned upon him nor reproachful.  She placed their hands together, hand in hand, and said, speaking to their hearts: 

—­Take hands, Stephen and Emma.  It is a beautiful evening now in heaven.  You have erred but you are always my children.  It is one heart that loves another heart.  Take hands together, my dear children, and you will be happy together and your hearts will love each other.

The chapel was flooded by the dull scarlet light that filtered through the lowered blinds; and through the fissure between the last blind and the sash a shaft of wan light entered like a spear and touched the embossed brasses of the candlesticks upon the altar that gleamed like the battle-worn mail armour of angels.

Rain was falling on the chapel, on the garden, on the college.  It would rain for ever, noiselessly.  The water would rise inch by inch, covering the grass and shrubs, covering the trees and houses, covering the monuments and the mountain tops.  All life would be choked off, noiselessly:  birds, men, elephants, pigs, children:  noiselessly floating corpses amid the litter of the wreckage of the world.  Forty days and forty nights the rain would fall till the waters covered the face of the earth.

It might be.  Why not?