boldened him to ask her if he might run up again to Wallbridge some Sunday and see her.
For six months now, Roger Dallinger had been running up to Wallbridge to see Cicely Morgan. As he sat staring out at the quiet, waiting hills, which all the week he had been picturing as a background to the most beautiful hour of his life, perhaps, it wasn't so much the immediate disappointment that the hills would wait in vain to-day that hurt him as the shocking possibility, that, instead of just barely having missed heaven, he may just barely have escaped a catastrophe.
Roger's route from the station to his room that night chanced to take him past the memorial window that had been the cause of Cicely's outburst. He had always seen the window from the inside before, with the daylight illuminating it. He couldn't have said definitely on what street it faced. But suddenly there it was before him! There was a service going on inside the church, and all its windows were glowing like soft dark jewels in antique settings.
He stopped and looked at the memorial window. Yes, to the life! The same light bright hair, the same flushed cheeks, lifted chin, and parted lips; and the same look of relief and joy blended in the wideapart eyes, as if the fear of dying had completely disappeared. Really lovely! No good as glass, perhaps, but charming nevertheless. Now why, why
