"Perhaps one of them will be Mary and I won't know her," he said to himself.

"I will know her voice," he added.
But, as the soprano took her place, his heart ceased to pound--she was small, and dark, and thin.

He arose and slipped out to continue his search.
They were singing as he entered the next chapel, and it required but a moment's listening to convince himself that Mary was not there.

The third church was a small stone building of odd structure, and while he hesitated before its door, a woman's voice took up a solo strain, powerful, exultant, and so piercingly sweet that the plainsman shivered as if with sudden cold.

Around him the softly moving maples threw dappling shadows on the walk.