Geraldine did not speak, and silence fell between them. Mrs. Mayhew noticed the steady, even stroke of the girl's needle and her quiet composure.
Had her words failed to make an impression, or was Geraldine too strong and firm to show her feelings, or was it that she did not care?
But she found no answer to her questions and the silence continued. Mrs. Mayhew was relieved when the children came and tapped at the door. Geraldine bade them enter and they flocked in, frolicking and laughing, and filled the room with their chatter.
When they were all gone and Geraldine was alone she stood, a white figure among her white draperies, and looked out at the storm and listened to the sleet and rain against her window-pane. The color burned into her cheeks again and a shadow lay in her eyes. She was beginning to believe the world a rather difficult place in which to live, and life not so bright and joyous as she had thought it to be.
Easter morning dawned gray and cold, but the sun, seeming to repent its sullen mood, broke through the clouds and shed a warm radiance over the cold, soaked earth.
The great church with its arched ceiling and taper windows seemed impressed with its own solemnity and its silence was intense and worshipful. The banks of lilies, emblems of peace and purity, seemed to harmonize with the spirit of the place; for their fragrance and beauty were far removed from all that is plain and common and their golden hearts were untouched by humanity's woes. Above the bank of lilies and ferns hung a picture of the Christ with a halo about His head. The painter's art showed in pose and expression, in every line and detail. The eyes were pathetic and beseeching, as they must have been when those most heart-rending words the world has ever known--the prayer in the garden--were uttered. The brow was calm with the peace of Heaven and the mouth, so fine and true, was yet sensitive and pleading. If this Friend of man could speak, what would be His message to the worshipers gathered there? If those eyes could see the nodding plumage of the forests' songsters adorning the heads bowed in worship; if those ears could hear the rustle of costly garments--Easter outfits--while over on the Flat little children shivered, bare-footed and garbed in rags; if those finely penciled nostrils could breathe the incense from the lilies' golden hearts, while from meagre, unkept homes vile odors arose--what, in truth, would be the message from the Christ this Easter day? If those hands were alive, those hands that carried healing, health and blessing in their touch, what would their mission be? Would not the crippled boy stand erect and walk? the tortured shoulders of the rheumatic straighten? the blind eyes of a parishioner's daughter open? and the deaf ears of the white-haired sexton hear, as they had not heard for twenty years, the Resurrection message?
But the eyes saw not, the ears heard not, the lips spoke no word and the hands bestowed neither health nor blessing. Was it then only a painted Christ that dwelt in the costly church? Only a painted Christ that confronted the Easter worshipers? Was there in their midst no heart touched by the feeling of their infirmities?
The song service was all that those that had planned and executed it had hoped for. The house was crowded; pews that had been dusted and cared for for months without occupancy were filled. The seats in the back of the church were filled also. Many of the poor came to feast their eyes on the lilies--conclusive evidence that, buried in their hearts, hidden from sight, perhaps, and struggling for existence, other lilies bloomed.
The song service was artistic, exquisite; not a flaw or discord marked the time or tone as the perfect blending of trained voices rose and fell with the pulse and throb of the music.
The pastor delivered his carefully prepared sermon with its rhetorical wording and euphonious flow, with more dignity and enthusiasm than had characterized him for many months past.