The many-voiced roar and din of this warm carnival lay not far
away from her across the cold bar of silence.
Soon within the house likewise the rush of the children's feet would
startle her ear; they would be tugging at the door, tugging at her
heart. And as she thought of this, the recollection of old simple
things came pealing back to her from behind life's hills. The years
parted like naked frozen reeds, and she, sorely stricken in her
womanhood, fled backward till she herself was a child again--safe in
her father's and mother's protection. It was Christmas morning, and
she in bare feet was tipping over the cold floors toward their
bedroom--toward her stockings.
Her father and mother! How she needed them at this moment: they had
been sweethearts all their lives. One picture of them rose with
distinctness before her--for the wounding picture always comes to the
wounded moment. She saw them sitting in their pew far down toward the
chancel. Through a stained glass window (where there was a ladder of
angels) the light fell softly on them--both silver-haired; and as with
the voices of children they were singing out of one book. She
remembered how as she sat between them she had observed her father
slip his hand into her mother's lap and clasp hers with a
steadfastness that wedded her for eternity; and thus over their linked
hands, with the love of their youth within them and the snows of the
years upon them, they sang together:
"Gently, Lord, O gently lead us
* * * * * *
"Through the changes Thou'st decreed us.
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