So did the crucifix on the wall work within the child's heart—so did the shadows of the wide, still house impress him, so did the curate's voice and gentle teaching, so did the gloom, the stained windows, the lofty arches, the lights and low, sweet music of the Church of the Lifted Cross favour the subtle change—that he was now moved to pain and sickening disgust by rags and pinched faces and discord and dirt and feverish haste and all manner of harshness and unloveliness, conceiving them poignant as sin....
Mother and son were in the park. It was evening—dusk: a grateful balm abroad in the air. Men and women, returning from church, idled through the spring night.
"But, dear," said his mother, while she patted his hand, "you mustn't hate the wicked!"
He looked up in wonder.
"Oh, my! no," she pursued. "Poor things! They're not so bad—when you know them. Some is real kind."
"I could not love them!"
"Why not?"
"I could not!"
So positive, this—the suggestion so scouted—that she took thought for her own fate.
"Would you love me?" she asked.