I could but place the child in her arms. She glided in. The flap fell. There was the smothered outcry of one soul—rent by pain.
"Miriam—Miriam—my God—Miriam!" "Come away," whispered a choky voice by my side, and Frances linked her arm through mine.
Then the tent was filled and the night air palpitated with sounds of anguished weeping. And with tears raining from my eyes, I hastened away from what was too sacred for any ear but a pitying God's. That had come to my life which taught me the depths of Hamilton's suffering.
"Dearest," said I, "now we understand both the pain and the joy of loving," and I kissed her white brow.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE PRIEST JOURNEYS TO A FAR COUNTRY
Again the guest-chamber of the Sutherland home was occupied.
How came it that a Catholic priest lay under a Protestant roof? How comes it that the new west ever ruthlessly strips reality naked of creed and prejudice and caste, ever breaks down the barrier relics of a mouldering past, ever forces recognition of men as individuals with individual rights, apart from sect and class and unmerited prerogatives? The Catholic priest was wounded. The Protestant home was near. Manhood in Protestant garb recognized manhood in Roman cassock. Necessity commanded. Prejudice obeyed as it ever obeys in that vast land of untrameled freedom. So Father Holland was cared for in the Protestant home with a tenderness which Mr. Sutherland would have repudiated. For my part, I have always thanked God for that leveling influence of the west. It pulls the fools from high places and awards only one crown—merit.