"For every line seems a fragrant breath of her.
"Robert Loring.
"Thanksgiving, Nineteen Eleven."
And as the Lady Ariel read, her beautiful face flamed scarlet, and shaking queerly, she dropped to her knees by the snowy bed, all her superb self-possession gone in a passionate fit of weeping.
Brush! brush! went the dripping pines against the window in a ceaseless monody, and presently this very strange guest of Aunt Cheerful's raised her head. Very white and strained her face but her eyes were shining.
"'The leper no longer crouched at his side,'"
she quoted softly;
"'But stood before him glorified,
Shining and tall and fair and straight
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful Gate.
. . . . . . . . .
And the Voice that was calmer than silence said,
"Lo, it is I, be not afraid!
In many climes, without avail,
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail
Behold it is here!"'"
