What is prayer, if this be not it? The evening light streams down,
warm, airy gold; the clouds press near in pomp of crimson and purple.
The sick woman holds her peace, and sees the angels of God ascending
and descending, ministering to her. Put off thy shoes from thy feet,
for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.

"Jubilate, jubilate!
Jubilate, amen!"

THE END.