Someone moved behind the chancel rail, touching with a lighted taper the wick of each holy candle until the altar sparkled with a score of tiny flames. She thought of his altar--his secret altar, and its tiny taper flame. Now the man across from them laid his sleeping baby in its mother's lap, quietly and awkwardly arose, and tiptoed out. He appeared again in the choir loft, removed his coat and waistcoat, spat upon his hands and grasped the bellows handle. Over this once, twice, thrice he bent, as though bowing before a symbol of the Trinity, and throughout the church fluttered a low, trembling sigh of the organ, as it breathed its first deep breaths of life since the morning service. It was not a mighty instrument, but the nun who demurely came and sat upon the bench, now touched the keys, and its harmonies held the little chapel in the grove enthralled. The sun was almost down as they turned homeward. It was the same drive, except that the cool of evening was in the air, and a heavier fragrance came from the tangles on either side. "Forgive me if I'm quiet," she said. "I haven't been to church for so shamefully long, and it so recalls the sweet years spent across there in the convent, that--that I suppose I'm moody." "I believe I understand almost how you feel. But do you know what I thought when the light was shining through that window on your face?" "Oh, please, Brent," her voice trembled, "I'm not a bit ready for you to tell me anything you think about me--ever!" He saw a mist in her eyes, and for awhile kept silent. "I wonder why it is," he gently asked, "that men stand in such awe of a girl's tears?" "It isn't the tears, I believe," she tried to laugh, "but intuitively in awe of the mysterious things which cause them. Women must be very silly about it. I know I'm getting to be, for in all my life I've never wanted to cry so many times as this summer. Maybe it's nerves. But sometimes we do feel so helpless that just the sheer weight of sorrow, or the buoyancy of happiness, will sort of press tears from our eyes, in spite of ourselves." "Which of those hidden forces has caused these?" "Neither," she looked brightly up at him. "There aren't any tears, you see." After they had gone another mile in silence, he drily observed: "Church hasn't left a very salubrious effect on us. It's made me feel as desolate as a haunted house, and the only impression I brought away is that a man must spit on his hands to pump an organ. Funny sort of a stunt, wasn't it--having him come up out of the audience that way?" "It didn't seem strange to me, Brent. You're probably too literal." "There isn't such a tremendous scope for the poetic, when a rube wiggles out of his clothes right in the pulpit, you might say!"