Every one dipped a finger in the water which was placed in a huge shell near the door. Then they bowed before the cross on the altar, which was shining at the end of the long aisle.
In the front seats, under the high dome, we could see Filippa, her parents, and Favra. The colored light from the stained glass windows fell down in rays and clouds of beauty upon the altar boys, who wore robes of purple and white lace.
The music of the blue and gold organ was subdued to a velvet whisper. Suddenly a boy arose behind the carved benches of the choir. He sang in a voice as clear as a bird’s:
“Come, Holy Spirit, Come.”
It was Fil who was singing. The censers were swinging. The organ began to drown even Fil’s clear voice. Then all the singers in the choir arose and filled the great dome, the long cathedral aisles, and even the palm grove outside the windows, with a great burst of sacred music:
“Holy, Holy is the Lord.”
It was all very solemn and very sweet. Far richer than in the homeland, seemed the music, because of the greater natural beauty of the tropics.
Then our good friend, the Padre, arose, and spoke to his people, about charity and missions and peace and the stranger within the doors. He spoke so kindly that we all regretted war, and even hated the name of war. He asked us to give gifts for the wounded and the poor in other sad, colder, harder lands of hate and evil.
Then he extended his hands. A great blessing seemed to flow down from the pulpit and even from the walls of the holy temple of peace, where the white altar, the golden cross, and the colored windows shone out as signs of purity and love.
When the service was dismissed, we all walked home together.