But she was almost convinced in these days that a benevolent Power might after all be helping her to work out her own salvation in an appointed way, with occasional weariness and tears, like the rest of the world.
It was in such a softened mood that she sat alone in church one Sunday afternoon at vespers.

She had chosen a place where she was sure of sitting quietly by herself, and where the rumble of the organ and the words of the service would come to her soothingly.

The late afternoon sun shone through the stained-glass windows, bringing out the tender blue on the Madonna's gown, the white on the wings of angels and robes of newborn innocents, the glow of rose and carmine, with here and there a glorious gleam of Tyrian purple.

Then her eyes fell on a memorial window opposite her.

A mother bowed with grief was seated on some steps of rough-hewn stones.