The woman's face shone. She had just read for the fifth time, the poem in "Surgit Amari" which closes the first book.
The lovely lines had fused with the holy rapture of the night, and her patient soul was caught up into commune with Jesus.
"Soon! Oh, soon! Dear Lord," she gasped, "I shall be with Thee for ever. If it seemeth good to Thee, let me be taken up on some such tranquil night as this. And I thank Thee, Dear Saviour, that Thou hast poured Thy Grace into the soul of Gilbert Lothian, the Poet. Through the white soul of this poet, which Thou hast chosen to be a conduit of comfort to me, my night pain has gone. I am drawn nearer to Thee, Jesus who hast died for me!
"Lord, bless the poet. Pour down Thy Grace upon him. Guard him, shield him and his for ever more. And, Sweet Lord, if it be Thy will, let me meet him in Heaven and tell him of this night—this fair night of summer when I lay dying and happy and thinking kindly and with gratitude of him.
"Jesus!"
CHAPTER IV
LOTHIAN GOES TO THE LIBRARY OF PURE LITERATURE
"I only knew one poet in my life:
And this, or something like it, was his way."