It is like the pictures in the galleries, and the music in
the cathedral, and the great still evenings, when the fields are all
silent, and it is as if Christ walked abroad in them; I do not know how
to talk of those things to the others--only to you--and I do not like to
talk _about_ you to them--do you not know?"
"Yes, I know. But what affinity have I. Bebee, to your thoughts of your
God walking in His cornfields?"
Bebee's eyes glanced down through the green aisle of the forests, with
the musing seriousness in them that was like the child-angels of
Botticelli's dreams.
"I cannot tell you very well. But when I am in the fields at evening and
think of Christ. I feel so happy, and of such good will to all the rest,
and I seem to see heaven quite plain through the beautiful gray air where
the stars are--and so I feel when I am with you--that is all. Only--"
"Only what?"
"Only in those evenings, when I was all alone, heaven seemed up there,
where the stars are, and I longed for wings; but now, it is _here_, and I
would only shut my wings if I had them, and not stir.
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