He told her of Tommy Garton, and suddenly surprised in her a phase of
nature which he had never seen before. Her eyes filled with a quick,
soft sympathy, a sympathy almost motherly.
"Poor little Tommy," she said, gently. "He laughs at himself and calls
himself 'half a man,' while he's greater than any two men he comes in
contact with once in a year. I call Tommy my cathedral--which sounds
foolish, I know, but which isn't! Do you know the feeling you get when
you steal all alone into one of those great, empty, silent churches,
where it is always a dim twilight? Not that Tommy is as somber and
stately as a great cathedral," she smiled. "Just the opposite, I know.
But his sunny nature, his unruffled cheerfulness affect me like a
sermon. When I allow myself to descend into the depths and see how
Tommy manages it, I feel as if I ought to be spanked. I think," she
ended, "that I have pretty well mixed things up, haven't I? But you
understand what I mean?"
"I understand. And since we have drunk to the Great Work, shall we
drink to a Great Soul who is a vital part of it? I don't know how we'd
manage without Tommy Garton."
They touched glasses gravely and drank to a man who, as they sat
looking out upon life through long, glorious vistas, dawn-flushed, lay
alone upon his cot, his face buried in his arms.
They finished their meal, cleared away the dishes together, and still
Mr.
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