rmly on their pedestals, their faces
raised to God's roof of blue, which never fails. Because their eyes are
lifted, they do not see the flotsam and jetsam of shattered stained
glass, burnt woodwork, smashed benches, broken picture-frames and torn,
rain-blurred portraits of lesser saints. They seem to think only of
heaven.
Though I'm not a Catholic, the chapel gave me such a sense of sacredness
and benediction that I felt I must be there alone, if only for a moment.
So when our officer led the others out I stayed behind. A clear ray of
late sunshine slanted through a broken window set high in a side wall,
to stream full upon the face of the Virgin. Someone had crowned her with
a wreath of fresh flowers, and had thrust a few white roses under the
folded hands which seemed to clasp them lovingly, with a prayer for the
peace of the world. The dazzling radiance brought face and figure to
life; and it was as if a living woman had taken the statue's place on
the pedestal. The effect was so startling that, if I were a Catholic, I
might have believed in a miracle. Protestant as I am, I had the impulse
to pray: but--(I don't know, Padre, if I have ever told you this)--I've
not dared to pray properly since I first stole the Becketts' love for
Brian and me. I've not dared, though never in my life have I so needed
and longed for prayer.
This time I couldn't resist, unworthy as I am. The smile of peace and
pardon on the statue's illumined face seemed to make all sin forgivable
in this haunt of holy dreams. "God forgive me, and show me how to
atone," I sent my plea skyward. Suddenly the conviction came that I
_should_ be shown a way of atonement, though it might be hard. I felt
lighter of heart, and went on to pray that Jack Curtis's hope might be
justified: that, no matter what happened to me, or even to Brian, Jim
Beckett might be alive, in this world, and come back safely to his
parents.
While I prayed, a sound disturbed the deep silence. It was a far-away
sound, but quickly it grew louder and drew nearer: at first a buzzing as
of all the bees in France mobilized in a bee-barrage. Then the buzzing
became a roar. I knew directly what it was: enemy aeroplanes.
I could not see them yet, but they must be close. If they were flying
very low, to search Chauny for visitors, I might be seen if I moved.
Those in the garden were better off than I, for they were screened by
the trees, but trying to join them I might attract attention
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