She was early for vespers, and there was only the music singing in her
own happy little heart as she entered the quiet place. The contrast
between the spot, with its shrines and symbols and aids to faith, and
all that she had associated with religion, conspired to separate her
from herself and her past, and left her a bit of breathing, worshiping
life, praising the great Giver of Life. She fell on her knees in an
exalted, jubilate spirit. She was more like a Praise-the-Lord psalm of
David than like a young girl of the nineteenth century.

And yet close behind her, a little to the left, was Bero on his knees
too, at his pater nosters.

By and by the music began. It was music beyond description; those
wonderful male voices, the chorus of young boys, and then suddenly, the
organ and some one wild falsetto carrying the great Latin soul-laden
words up higher.

All this while Mae's head was bent low and her heart was a-praying.

All this while Bero was on his knees also, but his eyes were on Mae.

The music ceased; the prayers were ended. Mae heard indistinctly the
sweep of trailing skirts, the sound of footsteps on the marble floor,
the noise of voices as the people went away, but still she did not move.
The selah pause had come after the psalm.

When she did rise, and turn, and start to go, her eyes fell on the
kneeling form. She tried to pass quickly without recognition, but he
reached out his hand.