wonderful—as if the finite were for a second infinity—as if humanity were for a space uplifted into divinity—as if all ugliness had vanished, leaving only flawless beauty. Oh—beauty—Emily shivered with the pure ecstasy of it. She loved it—it filled her being tonight as never before. She was afraid to move or breathe lest she break the current of beauty that was flowing through her. Life seemed like a wonderful instrument on which to play supernal harmonies.
“Oh, God, make me worthy of it—oh, make me worthy of it,” she prayed. Could she ever be worthy of such a message—could she dare try to carry some of the loveliness of that “dialogue divine” back to the everyday world of sordid market-place and clamorous street? She must give it—she could not keep it to herself. Would the world listen—understand—feel? Only if she were faithful to the trust and gave out that which was committed to her, careless of blame or praise. High priestess of beauty—yes, she would serve at no other shrine!
She fell asleep in this rapt mood—dreamed that she was Sappho springing from the Leucadian rock—woke to find herself at the bottom of the haystack with Ilse’s startled face peering down at her. Fortunately so much of the stack had slipped down with her that she was able to say cautiously,
“I think I’m all in one piece still.”
When you have fallen asleep listening to the hymns of the gods it is something of an anticlimax to be wakened by an ignominious tumble from a haystack. But at least it had aroused them in time to see the sunrise over Indian Head, which was worth the sacrifice of several hours of inglorious ease.
