CHAPTER XII—THE MUSIC OF THE MILLS
WHEN Gaston reached his home that night St. Clare had gone to bed. It was one o’clock. He could not sleep yet, so he sat in the window and tried to realise his great happiness, as he looked out on the green lawn with its white gravelled walk glistening in the full moon.
“The world is beautiful, life is sweet, and God is good!” he cried in an ecstasy of joy.
He sat there in the moonlight for an hour dreaming of his love and the great strenuous life of achievement he would live with her to inspire him. It seemed too good to be true. And yet it was the largest living fact. Like throbbing music the words were ringing in his heart keeping time with the rhythm of its beat, “I do love you!” And then he did something he had not done for years.—not since his boyhood,—he knelt in the silence of the moonlit room and prayed. Love the great Revealer had led him into the presence of God. The impulse was spontaneous and resistless. “Lord, I have seen Thy face, heard Thy voice, and felt the touch of Thy hand to-day! I bless and praise Thee! Forgive my doubts and fears and sins, cleanse and make me worthy of her whom Thou has sent as Thy messenger!” So he poured out his soul.
Next morning he grasped St. Clare’s hand as he entered the room. “Bob, I’m the happiest man in the world!”
“Congratulations! You look it.”
“She loves me! I’d like to climb up on the top of this house and shout it until all earth and heaven could hear and be glad with me!”
“Well, don’t do it, my boy. See her father first!”
“She says he likes me.”