But when Nance saw her full face, with the petulant mouth and
wrinkled brow, the impression vanished.
After a long time the service came to an end, and just as Nance was
waiting to pass out, she heard some one say:
"When do you expect your son home, Mrs. Clarke? We miss him in the
choir."
And the fair-haired lady in front of her looked up and smiled, and all
her wrinkles vanished as she said:
"We expect him home before next Sunday, if the naughty boy doesn't
disappoint us again!"
Nance waited to hear no more, but fled into the sunlight and around the
corner, hugging her secret. She was not going to let Mr. Mac see her, she
assured herself; she was just going to see him, and hear him sing.
When the next Sunday morning came, it found her once more hurrying up the
broad steps of the cathedral. She was just in time, for as she slipped
into a vacant pew, the notes of the organ began to swell, and from a side
door came the procession of choir boys, headed by Mac Clarke carrying a
great cross of gold.
Nance, hiding behind the broad back of the man in front of her, watched
the procession move into the chancel, and saw the members of the choir
file into their places. She had no interest now in the bishop's robes or
the lighted tapers or cryptic inscriptions. Throughout the long service
her attention was riveted on the handsome, white-robed figure which sat
in a posture of bored resignation, wearing an expression of Christian
martyrdom.
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