With her hand on the paling she spoke again:
"One thing I didn't tell you. It was I who built the Chapel. It is in the memory of my father. See, there is the memorial window. They were putting it in place when I came a little while ago."
She was not looking at Thorn, or she would have seen his face overspread with a whiteness like that of death. He stood as if frozen to marble. The morning sun on the Chapel's eastern side, striking through its open casements, lighted the iridescent rose-window with a tender radiance, gilding the dull yellow aureole about the head of the Master and giving life and glow to the face beside Him—dark, beardless, and passionately tender—at which Thorn was staring, with what seemed almost an agony of inquiry.
"St. John," she said softly, "'the disciple whom Jesus loved.'" She drew from the bosom of her dress the locket she always wore and opened it. "The face was painted from this—the only picture I have of my father."
His hand twitched as he took it. He looked at it long and earnestly—at the name carved on its lid. "Barbara—Barbara Fairfax!" he said. She thought his lips shook under the gray mustache.
"You—are a Buddhist, are you not?" she asked. "And Buddhists believe the spirits of the dead are always about us. Do you think—perhaps—he sees the Chapel?"
He put her locket into her hands hastily. "God!" he said, as if to himself. "He will see it through a hundred existences!"
Her eyes were moist and shining. "I am glad you think that," she said.
In the Chapel the bishop's gaze kindled as it went out over the kneeling people.
"We beseech Thee, that in this place now set apart to Thy service, Thy holy name may be worshiped in truth and purity through all generations."