As Despard rose from the organ Mrs. Thornton looked at him with moistened eyes.
“I do not know whether your song brings calm or unrest,” said she, sadly, “but after singing it I would wish to die.”
“It is not the music, it is the words,” answered Despard, “which bring before us a time when there shall be no sorrow or sighing.”
“May such a time ever be?” murmured she.
“That,” he replied, “it is ours to aim after. There is such a world. In that world all wrongs will be righted, friends will be reunited, and those severed here through all this earthly life will be joined for evermore.”
Their eyes met. Their spirit lived and glowed in that gaze. It was sad beyond expression, but each one held commune with the other in a mute intercourse, more eloquent than words.
Despard’s whole frame trembled. “Will you sing the Ave Maria?” he asked, in a low, scarce audible voice. Her head dropped. She gave a convulsive sigh. He continued: “We used to sing it in the old days, the sweet, never-forgotten days now past forever. We sang it here. We stood hand in hand.”
His voice faltered.
“Sing,” he said, after a time.
“I can not”