"No, father, it doesn't hurt me now."
Going into the choir, Verheyden took a seat apart and unseen. He leaned wearily, closed his eyes and listened, hearing the voices more than the instrument, hearing one voice through all. When Alice Rothsay uplifted her pure voice and sang the Dona nobis pacem, tears dropped slowly down his face; but they were not tears of bitterness.
Presently all but Alice left the church. As on that day, four years before, when he had first seen her, she had flowers for the altars.
It was a delight for her to get into the church alone, as she now believed herself to be. If she were good, she knew not. No matter: God is good. She felt as though she were among dear friends with nobody by to criticise, Her delight bubbled up almost over the verge of reverence. But perfect love casteth away fear; and she loved.
"Rosa Mystica, here are roses. Pray for me. And lilies for St. Joseph, whom I often forget. He is so near you he is lost, like the morning-star in the morning. St. Paul, I bring you fine plumes, and cardinal flowers like living coals. But you look as though you would scorch them up with a push from the point of your pen, writing epistles toward the four winds. O Unseen One! what shall I offer you? The earth is yours, and the fulness thereof. I cannot offer myself, for I am not mine to give. But if you love me, take me. O Sweetness!"
Sunset flashed through the windows, and every saint caught an aureola. Then the day went out, bright and loth. When the sanctuary lamp began to show its flame in the gathering twilight, Alice Rothsay rose with a happy heart, and went home.
Verheyden was happy, too; he scarce knew why, perhaps because the happiness of another made his own seem possible. He groped his way down to the chapel, and found Father Vinton hearing confessions.
"God is with him," thought the priest when Verheyden had left him. "He is like a child."
The same child-like sweetness shone in the face raised the next morning for communion.