The figure of a woman with a child in her arms attracted him. She had evidently come a long way; she was tired and footsore, and very poorly dressed. He watched her buy a candle for the Virgin’s shrine and kneel there till overcome with weariness, she slept, her head against a pillar, but even though she slept she clasped the child. He felt less impatience than usual with the wasteful, senseless candle-buying, and the love, the unconscious love of motherhood, and all things beautiful touched him closely. After all, he wondered, there was something strangely more than human in women who could give so much as Muriel and that mother. No physical passion could explain it all—it was so selfless, so extraordinary, so unnatural in another mood he might have called it, but here and now “supernatural” seemed the more fitting word. The baby stirred in its sleep, and the mother’s eyes opened watchfully. She changed its position to a more comfortable one in her arms, then she made the sign of the Cross on its forehead, and crossing herself rose to her feet and left the church. The doctor rose too, and then, moved by an emotion he could never account for knelt and prayed. He smiled a little whimsically to himself. “Why, I believe I am becoming a Christian,” he thought. But he had not changed; he was only beginning to see what all along the tremendous struggle of his life had been making him. People who are so much better than their creeds often wake up to find their creeds are higher than they dreamed. CHAPTER XXXIV “I shall clasp thee again: and with God be the rest!” HE had found her! He repeated breathlessly to himself the one great fact. Leslie Damores had searched all their old haunts in Paris, had wandered and waited and watched, and now at last found her in a great class-room of French students. He had come as a special favor to the master in whose studio they worked, and he could not signal her out for more than a word, but by a clever clumsiness he knocked over her drawing-board. As he picked it up and gave it to her all the great unspoken things passed between them. It proved the mocking inadequacy of words that all he could say was “When may I see you?” and that she could only answer “After the class.” The first blessed moment had gone, general criticisms had to be given, and French and English art discussed. An hour passed interminably; he could not always stand where the glint of red gold hair made of the studio a new heaven and a new earth. Then in a blessed skirmish of conflicting drawing-boards and parting chatter the class broke up, and somehow the master and the pupil found themselves once more in the streets of Paris, or the new Jerusalem. There was at that moment ridiculously little in a name. Their thoughts were only a happy chaos, and he could do nothing but repeat the only fact that mattered. “I have found you at last,” he said.