“It makes you sad.”
“Yes; vaguely, but exquisitely. How did you guess?”
“Your eyes have been streaming, Stellamaris.”
“Foolish, is n't it?”
“I suppose it 's the finite realizing itself unconsciously before the infinite. Is it too much for you?”
She shook her head. “I should like to stay here and gaze at this forever till I drank it all, all in.”
“Have you ever read the life of St. Brigit?” he asked. “There's one little episode in it which comes to my mind.”
“Tell me,” said Stella.
“She founded convents, you know, in Ireland. Now, there was one nun dearly loved by St. Brigit, and she had been blind from birth; and one evening they were sitting on one of the Wicklow Hills, and St. Brigit described to her all the beauties of the green valleys below, and the silver streams and the purple mountains beyond, melting into the happy sky. And the nun said, 'Sister, pray to God to work a miracle and give me sight so that I can see it and glorify Him.' So St. Brigit prayed, and God heard her prayer, and the eyes of the nun were opened, and she looked upon the world, and her senses were ravished by its glory. And then she fell to weeping and trembling and she sank on her knees before St. Brigit and said, I have seen, but I beseech thee pray that my sight be taken again from me, for I fear that in the beauty of the world I may forget God.' And St. Brigit prayed again, and God heard her, and the nun's sight was taken from her. And they both lifted their voices to heaven and glorified the Lord.”
Stella sighed when he had ended, and quiet fell upon them. She looked dreamily out of the window. Herold watched her face, with a pang at his heart. It was as pure as a little child's.