it so recalls the sweet years spent across there in
the convent, that--that I suppose I'm moody."

"I believe I understand almost how you feel. But do you know what I
thought when the light was shining through that window on your face?"

"Oh, please, Brent," her voice trembled, "I'm not a bit ready for you to
tell me anything you think about me--ever!"

He saw a mist in her eyes, and for awhile kept silent.

"I wonder why it is," he gently asked, "that men stand in such awe of a
girl's tears?"

"It isn't the tears, I believe," she tried to laugh, "but intuitively in
awe of the mysterious things which cause them. Women must be very silly
about it. I know I'm getting to be, for in all my life I've never wanted
to cry so many times as this summer. Maybe it's nerves. But sometimes we
do feel so helpless that just the sheer weight of sorrow, or the
buoyancy of happiness, will sort of press tears from our eyes, in spite
of ourselves."

"Which of those hidden forces has caused these?"

"Neither," she looked brightly up at him. "There aren't any tears, you
see."

After they had gone another mile in silence, he drily observed:

"Church hasn't left a very salubrious effect on us. It's made me feel as
desolate as a haunted house, and the only impression I brought away is
that a man must spit on his hands to pump an organ. Funny sort of a
stunt, wasn't it--having him come up out of the audience that way?"

"It didn't seem strange to me, Brent. You're probably too literal."

"There isn't such a tremendous scope for the poetic, when a rube wiggles
out of his clothes right in the pulpit, you might say!"

"Audience and pulpit," she gaily cried. "What a born churchman you are!
But, Brent," her voice grew wondrously sincere, "there was something
more to it: the simplicity with which that farmer, whose boots have been
in the soil for six days, could merge so actually into those things
which make for ideality! How few of us who cannot play an organ would
deign to offer ourselves as pumpers for its prosy bellows! Think of the
music we are denying ourselves, and others about us, merely because we
lack the kind of spirit to take off our coats and," she looked
whimsically up at him, "spit on our hands before the world!"

She knew that he was listening, but little suspected how much her words
had moved him until he spoke. There was a depth of passion in his voice
which she had never heard except upon that one day when he called he