"
She paused. And David, staring down at her shining head, did not
speak. Her fingers trembled over the keys, he could see dimly the
shadow of her long lashes, and the spirit-like scent of crushed
violets rose to him from the soft lace about her throat and her
hair.
"It is your music," he whispered. "I have never heard the Boat
Song like that!"
He tried to drag his eyes from her face and hair, sensing that he
was a near-criminal, fighting a mighty impulse. The notes under
her fingers changed, and again--by chance or design--she was
stabbing at him; bringing him face to face with the weakness of
his flesh, the iniquity of his desire to reach out his arms and
crumple her in them. Yet she did not look up, she did not see him,
as she began to sing "Ave Maria."
"Ave, Maria, hear my cry! O, guide my path where no harm, no
harm is nigh--"
As she went on, he knew she had forgotten to think of him. With
the reverence of a prayer the holy words came from her lips,
slowly, softly, trembling with a pathos and sweetness that told
David they came not alone from the lips, but from the very soul of
St, Pierre's wife. And then--
"Oh, Mother, hear me where thou art, And guard and guide my
aching heart, my aching heart!"
The last words drifted away into a whisper, and David was glad
that he was not looking into the face of St.
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