"That's what you want to be thinking of!" she cried. "Not darkness, and
lonesomeness, and sadness, but 'light, freedom, and song.' I can't begin
to think offhand of all the big, splendid things an Irishman has to be
proud of; but whatever they are, they are all yours, and you are a part
of them. I just despise that 'saddest-when-I-sing' business. You can
sing! Now you go over there and do it! Ireland has had her statesmen,
warriors, actors, and poets; now you be her voice! You stand right out
there before the cathedral door, and I'm going to come down the aisle
playing that accompaniment, and when I stop in front of you--you sing!"
The Angel's face wore an unusual flush. Her eyes were flashing and she
was palpitating with earnestness.
She parted the bushes and disappeared. Freckles, straight and tense,
stood waiting. Presently, before he saw she was there, she was coming
down the aisle toward him, playing compellingly, and rifts of light were
touching her with golden glory. Freckles stood as if transfixed.
The cathedral was majestically beautiful, from arched dome of frescoed
gold, green, and blue in never-ending shades and harmonies, to the
mosaic aisle she trod, richly inlaid in choicest colors, and gigantic
pillars that were God's handiwork fashioned and perfected through ages
of sunshine and rain.
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