Father Temple left the altar before which he had knelt in prayer, and advancing to the steps of the chancel, stood with one hand on the brass railing and briefly explained his unexpected presence. A telegram had summoned the rector of St. Hyacinth's to the deathbed of his father, and the request to officiate in his absence had been received too late to permit the preparation of a regular sermon; hence the patient indulgence of the congregation was invoked for some desultory remarks which might not prove entirely fruitless. After a few exordial sentences, he repeated slowly the opening ten verses from St. John xv., and waited a moment.
"For text let us consider: 'I am the true vine,' said our Lord, 'and ye, my brethren, are the branches.'"
Then followed a recitative of various selected passages from the "Sermon in the Hospital," in tones so musical and liquid, and with a repose of manner so profound, yet full of subtle magnetism, that his audience gazed in sympathetic wonder at the slight figure clad in the sombre habit of his order – at the thin, pallid spiritual face where large, deep-set black eyes burned with the preternatural light of consecrated but consuming zeal. The folded arms attempted no gestures – what need, while that rhythmic wave of sound flowed on? – until the end, when the clasped hands were lifted in final appeal:
"… the Cross of Christ
Is more to us than all His miracles.
Thou wilt not see the face nor feel the hand,
Only the cruel crushing of the feet
When through the bitter night the Lord comes down
To tread the winepress. Not by sight, but faith,
Endure, endure – be faithful to the end."
Unconscious of his movement, and irresistibly drawn, the young soloist sitting in the front row of choristers had risen, and leaning far forward, looked up into the face of the priest, like one mesmerized, his parted lips trembling in a passion of ecstasy. Then the organ boomed, and the boy fell from paradise and joined the choristers chanting as they marched away behind the uplifted cross.
A lady stepped into the aisle and touched Eglah's arm.
"So glad to see you here, Miss Kent. Shall always welcome you to my pew. What a delightful elocutionary tour de force Father Temple gave us! He would make a fortune on the stage of secular drama."
"Yes. Fra Ugo himself could scarcely have been more impressive when he talked to the sick and dying on hospital cots. To my cousin Vernon this world is only a hospital of sick souls. Mrs. St. Clair, I should like to meet that little boy who sang so beautifully. Can you help me?"
"Very easily. Come back with me now to the vestry and we may find him. Did you notice how that lovely boy seemed almost hypnotized?"
Only two of the larger choristers lingered, chatting with the choirmaster, and as they turned toward the rear stairway leading to the street, Mrs. St. Clair exclaimed:
"Mr. De Graffenried, stop the boys. We want to see the soloist. Call him back."
"Madam, I think he is still in the chancel."
Lifting the velvet curtain that concealed the altar from their view, she beckoned Eglah to her side.
Father Temple had been detained by one of the church-wardens, and as he turned to hasten away the boy, standing near, caught the black skirt of the priest.
"Please, sir, may I speak to you?"
"Certainly. I am glad to be able to thank you for the music to-day. Your solo gave me great pleasure."
"I could have done better, but my throat is sore; it bled just now. I told nobody, because I am the only one who can reach that high C, and so I tried not to fail. I want to ask you how I can learn all the words you spoke? Oh, if I could, I would set them to a chant; they would lift my heart out of me if I could sing them."
"You shall have them. What is your name?"
"Leighton Dane."
Father Temple took his tablets from an inside pocket and made an entry.
"Where do you live?"
"Oh, a long way off. Far down in East – Street; but, please sir, if you would leave the poetry here, I could get it at next rehearsal."
"My little man, how do you know it is poetry? The words do not rhyme."
"Rhyme? I do not understand that word – but I feel poetry. I always know it by the way my blood beats, and the little shiver that runs down my back, and the joy that makes me cry sometimes."
"I will send you a printed copy, in care of the rector. Dear child, God has given you a wonderfully sweet voice, and I am glad you use it in His service."
He laid his thin hand on the boy's golden head, and smiled down into the wistful blue eyes, where tears glistened.
The childish fingers, holding two snowy spikes of Roman hyacinth, were lifted and placed on the priest's hand, pressing it timidly against his curls.
"Thank you, sir. Please take these. They smell like the heavenly gardens, and I have nothing else to give."
"Were they not on the altar?"
"Yes, I slipped out two from the cluster there."
"Then they belong to God. By what right do you touch sacred gifts brought to Him?"
"They were mine. I bought them last night and laid them yonder when I came to-day – and God can spare just two, when I have nothing else to pay you with. Did you – oh! did you think I – stole – them?" A sob shook him, and tears followed.
Father Temple stooped and drew the little white-robed form to him, pressing the head against his breast.
"Forgive me, I did not quite understand; and I am sure the dear Father knows what is in your grateful heart. God bless you and keep you. I shall put the hyacinths between the leaves of my Bible."
Eglah stretched an arm across Mrs. St. Clair's shoulder and dropped the curtain.
"Come away. Some other time I may talk to him, not now."
The following day Eglah returned to Washington, and two hours before the departure of the train she drove to Twenty-third Street, where she and Mrs. Mitchell usually made their purchases of damask, ribbon, and lace. While the latter bent over boxes of wools and crochet cottons, Eglah seated herself at the handkerchief counter. When she had selected the desired number, the saleswoman filled out her index sheet and rapped sharply with her pencil.
"Cash! Here, cash!"
Several minutes elapsed.
"These cash boys are so tiresome. Cash, cash! I had to report one last week. Cash – here he comes at last. Now, do hurry up; you are a regular snail."
In the boy who hastened away Eglah recognized the soloist of St. Hyacinth's, and noticed a bandage around his throat. When he came back with the parcel and counted the change into the palm of the saleswoman, Eglah touched his arm.
"I heard you sing yesterday, and want to tell you how much I liked your voice."
"Thank you, ma'am, I – "
A spell of coughing interrupted, and she noticed how wan and weary he looked, and how heavy were the greyish shadows under his lovely eyes.
"I am afraid you are not well to-day. Are you an orphan?"
"Oh, no. Mother is living, and she says a mother is worth forty fathers."
"Will you tell me her name, and where she lives?"
"Mrs. Nona Dane, and she has the glove counter at – , Fourteenth Street."
At this instant the floor-walker strode forward, and a frightened expression crossed the boy's white face as he turned quickly, but Eglah laid a detaining