. Presently, in the far apse,
an organ began to play, its notes stealing softly out through the great
spaces like a benediction. She fancied that the saints, the glorified
martyrs in the painted windows illumined by the sunlight, could feel,
could hear, were touched by human sympathy in their beatitude. There was
peace here at any rate, and perhaps strength. What a dizzy whirl it
all was in which she had been borne along! The tones of the organ
rose fuller and fuller, and now at the side entrances came pouring in
children, the boys on one side, the girls on another-school children
with their books and satchels, the poor children of the parish, long
lines of girls and of boys, marshaled by priests and nuns, streaming
in--in frolicsome mood, and filling all the pews of the nave at the
front. They had their books out, their singing-books; at a signal they
all stood up; a young priest with his baton stepped into the centre
aisle; he waved his stick, Margaret heard his sweet tenor voice, and
then the whole chorus of children's voices rising and filling all the
house with the innocent concord, but always above all the penetrating,
soaring notes of the priest-strong, clear, persuading. Was it not almost
angelic there at the moment? And how inspired the beautiful face of the
singer leading the children!

Ah, me! it is not all of the world worldly, then. I don't know that the
singing was very good: it was not classical, I fear; not a voice, maybe,
that priest's, not a chorus, probably, that, for the Metropolitan. I
hear the organ is played better elsewhere. Song after song, chorus after
chorus, repeated, stopped, begun again: it was only drilling the little
urchins of the parochial schools--little ragamuffins, I dare say, many
of them. What was there in this to touch a woman of fashion, sitting
there crying in her corner? Was it because they were children's voices,
and innocent? Margaret did not care to check her tears. She was thinking
of her old home, of her own childhood, nay, of her girlhood--it was not
so long ago--of her ideals then, of her notion of the world and what it
would bring her, of the dear, affectionate life, the simple life, the
school, the little church, her room in the cottage--the chamber where
first the realization of love came to her with the odors of May. Was
it gone, that life?--gone or going out of her heart? And--great
heavens!--if her husband should be cold to her! Was she very worldly?
Would he love