The door was ajar and he passed into the empty church. It seemed very large and gray now that he had it to himself. His feet made a loud echoing noise that was disconcerting. He had meant to call out, 'Here I am!' But in the face of these echoes he could not.
He found the marble child, its head bent more than ever, its hands reaching out quite beyond the edge of the font; and when he was quite close he whispered,—
'Here I am.—Come and play!'
But his voice trembled a little. The marble child was so plainly marble. And yet it had not always been marble. He was not sure. Yet—
'I am sure,' he said. 'You did talk to me in the shrubbery, didn't you?'
But the marble child did not move or speak.
'You did come and hold my hand last Sunday,' he said, a little louder.
And only the empty echoes answered him.
'Come out,' he said then, almost afraid now of the church's insistent silence. 'I've come to live with you altogether. Come out of your marble, do come out!'
He reached up to stroke the marble cheek. A sound thrilled him, a loud everyday sound. The big key turning in the lock of the south door. The aunts!