'That day is sure,
Though not perhaps this week, nor month, nor year,
When your great love shall clean forgotten be,
And my poor tenderness shall yet endure.'
Wilfrid S. Blunt.
A DEVOTEE.
[CHAPTER I.]
'Yet to be loved makes not to love again;
Not at my years, however it hold in youth.'
Tennyson.
The cathedral was crammed. The tall slender arches seemed to spring out of a vast sea of human heads. The orchestra and chorus had gradually merged into one person: one shout of praise, one voice of prayer, one wail of terror. The Elijah was in mid-career, sailing like a man-of-war upon the rushing waves of music.