What a beautiful expression--perpetual light! As Garth sang it, each syllable seemed to pierce the silence like a ray of purest sunlight.

"The dulness of--" Jane could just see the top of his dark head over the heavy brocade of the organ curtain.

She dreaded the moment when he should turn, and those vivid eyes should catch sight of her--"our blinded sight." How would he take what she must say?
Would she have strength to come through a long hard scene?
Would he be tragically heart-broken?
--"Anoint and cheer our soiled face"-- Would he argue, and insist, and override her judgment?
--"With the abundance of Thy grace"-- Could she oppose his fierce strength, if he chose to exert it?
Would they either of them come through so hard a time without wounding each other terribly?
--"Keep far our foes; give peace at home"-- Oh! what could she say?
What would he say?
How should she answer?
What reason could she give for her refusal which Garth would ever take as final?
--"Where Thou art Guide, no ill can come." And then, after a few soft, impromptu chords; the theme changed.
Jane's heart stood still.

Garth was playing "The Rosary." He did not sing it; but the soft insistence of the organ pipes seemed to press the words into the air, as no voice could have done.

Memory's pearls, in all the purity of their gleaming preciousness, were counted one by one by the flute and dulciana; and the sadder tones of the waldflute proclaimed the finding of the cross.