His prayer for forty years had been to be made like his master; and if that prayer was not answered, how was it that, every year he lived, he found himself loving the faces of his fellows more and more?
Ever as they passed, instead of interfering with his contemplations, they gave him more and more to think: were these faces, he asked, the symbols of a celestial language in which God talked to him?
Donal sat down, and took his Greek Testament from his pocket.

But all at once, brilliant as was the sun, the light of his life went out, and the vision rose of the gray quarry, and the girl turning from him in the wan moonlight.

Then swift as thought followed the vision of the women weeping about the forsaken tomb; and with his risen Lord he rose also--into a region far "above the smoke and stir of this dim spot," a region where life is good even with its sorrow.

The man who sees his disappointment beneath him, is more blessed than he who rejoices in fruition.

Then prayer awoke, and in the light of that morning of peace he drew nigh the living one, and knew him as the source of his being.
Weary with blessedness he leaned against the shadowing honeysuckle, gave a great sigh of content, smiled, wiped his eyes, and was ready for the day and what it should bring.