"That is what comforts me," said the child, the mystic light dying out of her eyes. "It is what comforts me about the whole thing. I know it will always be there when I want it. I have talked to Emmeline about it. Even little Gladys taught me her hymn."
And the child and the woman looked into each other's eyes, knowing that their souls were akin, and that the witchery of the twilight hour had opened floodgates closed by day, but which opened when the soul felt the need of speech.
"I am glad you told me, Cynthia," said Carolina. "The only answer to all of life's puzzles, I have found in this awakened sense of mine, which will surely come to you some day. Remember it when the waters grow too deep."
"The answer to all life's puzzles," echoed Cynthia.
"Sing, child," said Carolina.
And Cynthia, whose voice was like the rippling water and the sounding of silver bells, began to sing what Gladys called her hymn:
"'And o'er earth's troubled, angry sea
I see Christ walk,
And come to me and tenderly,
Divinely talk!'"
As the child sang, every feeling in every heart melted, until only love remained, and, when she finished, Kate cried out:
"It's all over! I d-don't hate Mrs. Eddy any more. I--I've been healed of it by Cynthia's singing."
The child's lovely voice had so sadly shaken Carolina's composure that, under cover of the half-darkness, she rose and made her way quietly to a little hall which led to a private staircase, intending to gain her own room and recover herself before her guests began to take leave.