The eldest boy seeing me hesitate came to my side and whispered softly.
"Mother says we are not to speak when grandfather looks like that--cos
he's praying." I stood holding the child's hand, an indescribable
sensation stealing over me while I stood gazing into the rapt, sightless
face.
Never before in great cathedral, or humble church, had I felt the awful
presence of God as at that moment. A strange trembling seized me, and,
involuntarily I turned my head away, as if I were gazing too boldly upon
holy things. I was reminded of the ancient high priest of the Jewish
religion who, once a year, took his life in his hand, and went into the
Holy of Holies, to gaze on the Divine token.
The child, too, stood silently with bated breath, perhaps more deeply
impressed than his wont at seeing my emotion. After awhile he pulled my
hand gently and then motioned for me to stoop down to him. I did so.
"Grandad prays every day for you. I hear him myself." He looked up into
my face with a curious expression of importance at having such a secret
to tell, and surprise that I should need his grandfather's prayers.
A sharp knock at the door broke the spell that was holding us in such
holy quiet.
Mrs. Blake hastened to open it, when a strangely familiar voice sounded
on my ear.
There was a hearty ring of welcome in her voice as she bade him welcome.
"Come right in; you'll find things better'n you might expect."
I turned to see who was coming. A swift and kindly look of recognition in
the deep, blue eyes took me back to my first experience of Cavendish;
and an instant after I recollected, with a good deal of satisfaction,
that it was the Rev.
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