He covered the one hand he held with his other and sat in silent bliss, and presently she added the one, little, lonesome hand she had left to the friendly group, and nestled up closer. “Just sweethearts!” she whispered. When the hymn was ended, he was dreaming off toward a beautiful window of stained glass. The colors were exquisitely blended, the design simple. In the foreground was a cross and scroll bearing a name. In the deep perspective, the sun was setting, its splendor on a single drifting cloud. To the right and left of the cross cherubs hovered, one face lifted, the other foreshortened, and eyes closed. The faces were identical. A loved one slept under the cross; a spirit had ascended to heaven. This was the story they told. “You like my window? I call it mine because I love it so. And I am afraid I come oftener to see it than to pray.” “Yes,” said King, gently, “I like it.” “Have you seen it before?” “Yes!” “Tell me what about it impresses you most.” “The two little faces.” “Oh! and I love them most, too. Perhaps you have never heard the romance, the miracle of that window.” “Romance? Miracle?” “It is a memorial to Agnes Vandilever, erected by her husband.” “Yes, I know. But the romance?” “The artist who designed it, though he had never seen or heard of her child, accidentally made the two faces portraits of that child. If she had posed for him, they could not have been nearer perfect. That’s why her father selected the design over the dozens submitted.” “That I had heard.” “But the romance is this: the little girl is now grown, and one of the richest girls in the world--are you listening?” “Yes,” said King, whose gaze had returned to the two little faces. “You were saying she is rich--one of the world’s richest girls. I know that. A century though lies between her and the little ones yonder. She can never dream back to them. I was thinking of that.”