At the foot of the large crucifix, which occupied a somewhat shadowy corner, lay a wreath of magnificent crimson roses.

It would seem as though some high festival were about to be celebrated, and I gazed around me with a beating heart, half expecting some invisible touch to awaken the notes of the organ and a chorus of spirit-voices to respond with the "Gloria in excelsis Deo!" But there was silence--absolute, beautiful, restful silence.

I strove to collect my thoughts, and turning my eyes towards the jewelled cross that surmounted the high altar, I clasped my hands, and began to wonder how and for what I should pray.

Suddenly the idea struck me that surely it was selfish to ask Heaven for anything; would it not be better to reflect on all that had already been given to me, and to offer up thanks?
Scarcely had this thought entered my mind when a sort of overwhelming sense of unworthiness came over me.

Had I ever been unhappy?
I wondered.