An organist, practising, stayed on, and always Lynda was to
recall, when she thought of her wedding day, those tender notes that
rose and fell like a stream upon which the sacred words of the simple
service floated.
"The Voice That Breathed O'er Eden" was what the unseen musician played.
He seemed detached, impersonal, and only the repeated strains gave
evidence of his sympathy. An old woman had wandered into the church and
sat near the door with a rapt, wistful look on her wrinkled face. Near
the altar was a little child, a tiny girl with a bunch of wayside
flowers in her fat, moist hand.
Lynda paused and whispered something to the little maid and then, as she
went forward, Truedale noticed that the child was beside Lynda, a
shabby, wee maid of honour!
It was very quaint, very touchingly pretty, but the scene overawed the
baby and when the last words were said and Truedale had kissed his wife
they noticed that the little one was in tears. Lynda bent over her full
of tenderness.
"What is it, dear?" she whispered.
"I--I want--my mother!"
"So do I, sweetheart; so do I!"
The wet eyes were raised in wonder.
"And where is your mother, baby?"
"Up--up--the hill!"
"Why, so is mine, but you will find yours--first. Don't cry, sweetheart.
See, here is a little ring. It is too large for you now, but let your
mother keep it, and when you are big enough, wear it--and remember--me.
Pages:
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218