The prayer of a heart-broken world breathed in the sobbing chords. Then the movement changed, and the harmony seemed to promise rest and peace to the weary sons of men. The spirit of the penitential season had been crystallized in sound, and touched the heart as though a voice had whispered from another world.
The music died away, as if the infinite had taken to its breast the tired soul of one who cried aloud, then passed away in peace; and she turned and looked into the face of the youth at her side.
“Is it not restful?” she asked gently. “How wonderful it is that music should so change our mood and aspirations.”
“And you forgive me?” he asked penitently.
She laughed almost gayly.
“Is it not a habit I’ve fallen into? I am always granting you pardon, am I not? Do you remember, the very first time I met you you were obliged to ask forgiveness for what you said. How many times since then I’ve pardoned you I can hardly say. You have been very rebellious.”
“How could I be otherwise?” he exclaimed, his eyes avoiding hers. “Does the prisoner feel less impatient because of his chains. It is so difficult, is it not, to be civilized?”
“I hardly understand you, Mr. Stoughton,” she said, trying hard to speak very coldly.
“Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth,”
he quoted.