"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."