mills and herds and flocks and generous harvests.

As the sun sank in a smother of purple and red behind the hills, they
saw the church and monastery. The bells were chanting their call to
evening prayer.

The Boy held his breath in silent ecstasy. He had never heard anything
like it before. It was wonderful--those sweet notes echoing over hill
and valley in the solemn hush of the gathering twilight.

They waited for the priests to emerge from the chapel before making
their presence known. Through the open windows the deep solemn throb of
the organ pealed. The soul of the Boy rose enchanted on new wings whose
power he had never dreamed. Hidden depths were sounded of whose
existence he could not know. There was no organ in the little bare log
church the Baptists had built near his father's farm in Mississippi. His
father and mother were Baptists and of course he was going to be a
Baptist some day. But why didn't they have stained glass windows like
those through which he saw the light now streaming--wonderful flashing
lights, whose colors seemed to pour from the soul of the organ. And why
didn't they have a great organ?

He was going to like these Roman Catholics. He wondered what his mother
would say to that?

It all seemed so familiar, too. Where had he heard those bells? Where
had he heard the peal of that organ and seen the flash of those gorgeous
lights? In the sky at sunset perhaps, and in the rumble of the storm.
Maybe in dreams--and now they had come true.