"Oh, a long way off. Far down in East —— Street; but, please sir, if you would leave the poetry here, I could get it at next rehearsal."
"My little man, how do you know it is poetry? The words do not rhyme."
"Rhyme? I do not understand that word—but I feel poetry. I always know it by the way my blood beats, and the little shiver that runs down my back, and the joy that makes me cry sometimes."
"I will send you a printed copy, in care of the rector. Dear child, God has given you a wonderfully sweet voice, and I am glad you use it in His service."
He laid his thin hand on the boy's golden head, and smiled down into the wistful blue eyes, where tears glistened.
The childish fingers, holding two snowy spikes of Roman hyacinth, were lifted and placed on the priest's hand, pressing it timidly against his curls.
"Thank you, sir. Please take these. They smell like the heavenly gardens, and I have nothing else to give."
"Were they not on the altar?"
"Yes, I slipped out two from the cluster there."
"Then they belong to God. By what right do you touch sacred gifts brought to Him?"