Wherein an Angel Materializes and a Man Worships Perhaps there was a breath of sound--Freckles never afterward could remember--but for some reason he lifted his head as the bushes parted and the face of an angel looked between.

Saints, nymphs, and fairies had floated down his cathedral aisle for him many times, with forms and voices of exquisite beauty.
Parting the wild roses at the entrance was beauty of which Freckles never had dreamed.

Was it real or would it vanish as the other dreams?
He dropped his book, and rising to his feet, went a step closer, gazing intently.

This was real flesh and blood.

It was in every way kin to the Limberlost, for no bird of its branches swung with easier grace than this dainty young thing rocked on the bit of morass on which she stood.
A sapling beside her was not straighter or rounder than her slender form.