The Cathedral, her great stone Poem, her Paradise, rose before her, and spoke to her, day and night.
But with new readings.
For she had learned that this whole visible world, with its earth and its heavens, its cities and its cathedrals, this whole transitory life, is but as the little timber Cottage nestling against the everlasting walls of the Temple whose builder and maker is God.
Day by day old Agatha grumbled over her household work, yet day by day more tenderness began to mingle with her complainings.
Day by day little Mark came, attracted irresistibly, he knew not how, by the gentle voice, although the feeble fingers could mend or make for him no more. And unconsciously he unlearned the rough lessons of the streets, and learned a loving reverence from the dying child.
And day by day the father laid the little white loaf, and the milk, and the water-jug by his darling's bed, only showing his anxiety by never missing any day now to bring some little gift of fruit to add to it, were his labour prosperous or not, taking it from his own scanty meal. And little Marie dared not remonstrate or refuse; she knew the memory of those little sacrifices would be so precious.
Beyond this tacit understanding, the two did not confess to each other by word or look that both knew what was at hand.
Only one morning, as he was leaving home, she said to him in a faint voice, but with a bright smile, "Father, I think God has given you beautiful work to do—to carry water to those who thirst. Is it not just what His only Son, our Lord, is doing always for us? He does not stand at the fountain; He brings the water home, does He not? home to every one of us, to our very hearts."
Then she added,—
"Father, you will come back early. I think our Lord is coming to take me to the Fountains of Waters. We shall drink together one morning, father, fresh from the spring. I think I am going Inside at last."