going, she watched the cathedral, wondering if Mac still sang there.

One Sunday, toward the close of summer, she followed a daring impulse,
and went to the morning service. She sat in one of the rear pews and held
her breath as the procession of white-robed men and boys filed into the
choir. Mac Clarke was not among them, and she gave a little sigh of
disappointment, and wondered if she could slip out again.

On second thought she decided to stay. Even in the old days when she had
stolen into the cathedral to look for nickels under the seats, she had
been acutely aware of "the pretties." But she had never attended a
service, or seen the tapers lighted, and the vast, cool building, with
its flickering lights and disturbing music, impressed her profoundly.

Presently she began to make discoveries: the meek apologetic person
tip-toeing about lowering windows was no other than the pompous and
lordly Mason who had so often loomed over her as an avenging deity. In
the bishop, clad in stately robes, performing mysterious rites before
the altar, she recognized "the funny old guy" with the bald head, with
whom she had compared breakfast menus on a historical day at the
graded school.

So absorbed was she in these revelations that she did not notice that she
was sitting down while everybody else was standing up, until a small
black book was thrust over her shoulder and a white-gloved finger pointed
to the top of the page. She rose hastily and tried to follow the service.
It seemed that the bishop was reading something which the people all
around her were beseeching the Lord to hear. She didn't wonder that the
Lord had to be begged to listen. She wasn't going to listen; that was one
thing certain.