the left. Nobody else stepped into their pews. The ladies who came later turned back and stood in the rear.
That bench was the goal towards which the eyes of the curious and the sedate of both parties were turned. Nay, excitement was in the faces of the pious people, as if their glances said: “How did she dare come to the temple of the Lord?”
An old deacon, in white, gold-covered vestments, served high mass, with the assistance of chaplains and ministrants. From the choir thundered the organ and the violins, accompanying the voices of the patrician daughters,—they were playing Führer’s Mass.
Sad memories stirred Lucy’s soul during that playing; she thought of those Sundays and those masses when, as a young child, she used to sing at mass. Her father then played the organ. The sunlight used to fall through one window upon a gilt angel,—her first love. The old parish priest used to give
