"Those old Sundays—"
"Ah, yes! The shining pews and the painted stars. This is better."
"Yes, this is better. Heather instead of the sticky pews—"
"And real stars," she murmured.
"And you for priestess."
"No, I'm just a worshipper."
"But you show the way. You give light to them that sit in darkness."
"Ah, don't." There was pain in her voice. "Don't give me things. At least, don't give me praise. I'm afraid of having things."
"But why, my dear?" The words dropped away into the gathering dusk, and they both listened to them as they went.
"I'm afraid they will be taken away again."