“We are trying to soothe the tumultuous minds of our asylum patients by displaying sweet peace in picture garbs. To-night by the aid of a musical and illustrative service we shall depict, in the chapel, the Birth of Jesus. But I’ll not explain further now. Wait until the hour of service, sister.”
When the people were gathered, Miriamne, glowing with hope, yet silenced by anxiety, was in the midst of the assembly. The preliminary services moved slowly along with a studied absence of hurry. Miriamne could not give them her attention; she was disappointed because she did not see her father present, and the chaplain himself was not there. Presently the music of the occasion arrested her attention. She followed its movement and found it gaining control of her feelings. There was an organ in soft, quiet tones leading voices that murmured words of trust and rest. She followed the flowing tide of melody again and again, each time further, higher, more contentedly, until one strain, expressive of serene triumph, lifted her to a very third heaven of satisfaction. There it left her almost at a loss to say where the melody ceased and the remembering began.
At that instant, the chaplain passed by her side, robed in white, hurriedly whispering so she alone could hear: “Your father is behind the screen of Templar banners, quietly listening. Be hopeful and pray. God is good!” The words to her soul were as rain whisperings to spring flowers in a torrid noon.
Advancing to the raised platform, the young man told the story of Bethlehem, ending with a beautiful description of the angel song of “Peace on earth, good will to men.” The words of the speaker were quietly spoken, and his address mostly like that of one conversing with a few friends; but the words were very impressive. When all had bowed to receive the benediction, Miriamne, lifting her eyes, beheld her father sitting, with the flag screen thrown aside, full in view, but clad as a knight and without manacle or guard. For a moment he sat thus, then arose and calmly moved out of the chapel toward his lodge. She obeyed a sudden impulse and rose to speed after him, but the restraining hand of the Grand Master was laid on her arm:
“Wait; not yet, daughter.”
Renewed hope made it easy for her to comply, and she sat down again filled with gratitude toward God. A series of similar services followed, each bringing new causes for hopefulness to the maiden.
“We are going to Cana to-day, sister,” remarked the young chaplain some weeks subsequent to the “Birth of Peace” service.
“To Cana?”
“To Cana, and for a purpose.”