The altar was lit with many candles. She stared at it almost literally with a sort of horror, as if it were a monstrous thing. The statues about, the odd pictures, the praying people here and there, even the entry of a man into a confessional and the fleeting glimpse of the head and shoulders of the priest, were small things. That altar stood to her for everything. Authority, logic, history—what were they to a girl? Oh, well, these had a place, perhaps; she liked to hear Paul speak of them; she assented to what he had to say; but one thing more than any other had gripped her, how or why she knew not, in all this strange talk of this incredible religion. The Baby in the Manger, the Sacrament on the altar—suppose that were true? And she had come to see; come up out of Galilee of the Gentiles to Jerusalem that is from above; come up from afar like the Wise Kings. Where is He that is born King of the Jews? she asked, trembling, in her heart. Here! What, among those candles, under that strange canopy—He?
So she stood hesitating. An old woman, bent, clean, made a deep curtsey in the aisle and came noisily down to the door. As she passed Edith, she looked up, surveyed her for a moment, and smiled. "A happy Christmas, honey," she said. "Go forward, and sit down. Himself is waiting you."
Edith smiled an answer, mechanically. She did not question the odd saying. Neither then nor later did she doubt that the thing was a miracle. She went forward. "Himself is waiting you," she repeated wonderingly. It was as if a deep musical bell had pealed within her, and a whole sweet carillon broken out. "Himself is waiting you, Himself is waiting you, Himself is waiting you," rang the merry bells. She actually flushed a little. She sat down in a pew and stared at the altar.
Amid a host of confused unknown objects which shone and blended the one in the other, she perceived a kind of box. It had curtains, she saw, and they were drawn. Why drawn? Her eyes wandered upwards. She perceived that from the four corners sprang metals which met above after an interval and upheld a cross. The little gold, shining thing held her for a moment. Then she looked into the space beneath. Candlelight gleamed, sparkled, leapt, on a brilliant, glittering something not unlike a vase filled with scintillating flowers. In the very heart of the flowers gleamed a living white. She stared at it. And then, suddenly, all untaught, she knew.
"Himself is waiting you; Himself is waiting you; Himself is waiting you"—lower and even lower, a faint whisper of music, the little peal rang on. But she did not believe ... Yet for centuries on centuries, Paul had said, men had thought ... Martyrs had died ... Saints had seen.... He? Well, a Baby.... Like her last-arrived sister, tiny, puckered, remote, dear. He? Suppose that that small white circle was a little window, through which her soul could pass; could pass and pass; to His embrace, His tone, His heart.... Slowly, very slowly, Edith Thornton, who envied dear, eager, clever Paul since he had so much to give, slipped forward en her knees, and closed her eyes.
And then, in the fragrant, gleaming silence of her mind, there arose a little fear. She watched it come. It was very small at first, like a man's hand. Only it grew and grew, till it filled all her gaze and thundered in her soul's ear. Wave on wave it thundered, thundered and broke, this overwhelming mastery of fear. And she knew quite well why she was afraid. Her soul had passed through the little door, but it was lonely there. "Paul, Paul, dear, dear Paul!" she cried, striving so hard to see him. "Paul!"—the echoes went wandering down the corridors of her soul, and came reverberating back to her. She was alone—alone. And the light died, and the music died, and she was very sore afraid.
And then He came. Walking through the dark He came, seeking her. She saw Him, only there was no sight. The very scent of His robes was sweet, only there was no smell. He spoke, too; clearer than the noise of the water-floods that drowned her, louder than the great winds roaring through the lashed Hursley pines, she heard Him, only there was no sound. And she knew what He said, only there was no thought. "It is I," He said, "I, I; be not afraid."
She gripped the feet of Him, and marvelled as she did so that they should tread her down so ruthlessly, so immeasurably happy. And she cried up to Him—"Paul, Paul! Oh, Master, give me Paul! Don't take Paul away! I can't live without Paul!"
"Daughter," He said, "it is I—I; be not afraid."
She sobbed; she choked with sobs. "Paul!" she tried to cry, "Oh Master, dear dear Master, give me Paul—Paul!" And the sound, that was no sound, echoed away and away and out on great mountain places, vast and bare. The White Feet slowly died between her hands. She looked up. "It is I," He whispered, bending over her. She looked right into His eyes, down, down, down. She had not thought death could be so unutterably sweet.