"They were mine. I bought them last night and laid them yonder when I came to-day—and God can spare just two, when I have nothing else to pay you with. Did you—oh! did you think I—stole—them?" A sob shook him, and tears followed.
Father Temple stooped and drew the little white-robed form to him, pressing the head against his breast.
"Forgive me, I did not quite understand; and I am sure the dear Father knows what is in your grateful heart. God bless you and keep you. I shall put the hyacinths between the leaves of my Bible."
Eglah stretched an arm across Mrs. St. Clair's shoulder and dropped the curtain.
"Come away. Some other time I may talk to him, not now."
The following day Eglah returned to Washington, and two hours before the departure of the train she drove to Twenty-third Street, where she and Mrs. Mitchell usually made their purchases of damask, ribbon, and lace. While the latter bent over boxes of wools and crochet cottons, Eglah seated herself at the handkerchief counter. When she had selected the desired number, the saleswoman filled out her index sheet and rapped sharply with her pencil.
"Cash! Here, cash!"
Several minutes elapsed.
"These cash boys are so tiresome. Cash, cash! I had to report one last week. Cash—here he comes at last. Now, do hurry up; you are a regular snail."
In the boy who hastened away Eglah recognized the soloist of St. Hyacinth's, and noticed a bandage around his throat. When he came back with the parcel and counted the change into the palm of the saleswoman, Eglah touched his arm.