they pass that wall.

So she sat in the choir room and awaited her turn.

"Altos a little stronger, please."

"Of the majesty, of the majesty, of the majesty, of Thy gl-o-o-ry,"
sang Elizabeth. And was at once a nun and a principal in a
sentimental dream of two.

What appeared to the eye was a small and rather ethereal figure
with sleek brown hair and wistful eyes; nice eyes, of no particular
color. Pretty with the beauty of youth, sensitive and thoughtful,
infinitely loyal and capable of suffering and not otherwise
extraordinary was Elizabeth Wheeler in her plain wooden chair. A
figure suggestive of no drama and certainly of no tragedy, its
attitude expectant and waiting, with that alternate hope and fear
which is youth at twenty, when all of life lies ahead and every
to-morrow may hold some great adventure.

Clare Rossiter walked home that night with Elizabeth. She was a
tall blonde girl, lithe and graceful, and with a calculated coquetry
in her clothes.

"Do you mind going around the block?" she asked. "By Station
Street?" There was something furtive and yet candid in her voice,
and Elizabeth glanced at her.

"All right. But it's out of your way, isn't it?"