The girl roused in the dusk of the dying day and took the beautiful image of the Mary, and went down with it to the little old faded lady’s room, and set it upon the mantel there, that it might bring happiness to one whose sweet mind had not passed beyond these things.
And she, little and old and faded, seated before the fire, smiled when the girl had set above her hearth the emblem of her outworn creed. When the tall slender girl went and sat down beside the flounced and emaciated old knees a pathetically weary old hand was stretched out and rested on the brown hair.
“Mother of God,” sighed the withered lips, “I am so glad not to be alone.”
As the girl parted from her image of the Mary, she left the childhood of her intellect behind her.
And from that day, Betty raised her frank honest eyes to the facts and verities of the live world about her, and, as she nearest might, fearlessly and cheerfully lived her own sweet life foot to foot and eye to eye with the mystic realities of her appointed destiny, mistaking guesses for truth never.
For it is through the humanities alone, be ye sure of this, that we may touch the hem of the garment of God.
CHAPTER XXIX
Wherein Mr. Pompey Malahide loses his Breath in the Midst of a Boast