Always as the line of white-clad choristers passed down the aisle, among
them was one who brushed tenderly against her as he walked by, whom no
one else saw. Rising above the actual voices and heard by her alone, up
to the dome soared a voice dearer, more thrilling, than the rest.

Often she was at her window, watching the workmen at their toil as they
brought out more and more the great shape on the heights. Often she
stood looking across at the park hillside opposite. Whenever spring came
back and the slope lived again with young leaves and white blossoms,
always she thought of him. Always she saw him playing in an eternal
April. When autumn returned and leaves withered and dropped, she thought
of herself.

Sometimes standing beside his piano.

Having always in her face the look of immortal things.

* * * * *

The cathedral there on its rock for ages saying:

"_I am the Resurrection and the Life_."


THE END