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Then he added, smiling quite boyishly: “I wonder whether some of the saints of the early Church weren’t a good deal like her. She’s not at all modern in her make-up, is she?”
During those days and nights when she talked so little, one felt that Myra’s mind was busy all the while—that it was even abnormally active, and occasionally one got a clue to what occupied it. One night when I was giving her her codeine she asked me a question.
“Why is it, do you suppose, Nellie, that candles are in themselves religious? Not when they are covered by shades, of course—I mean the flame of a candle. Is it because the Church began in the catacombs, perhaps?”
At another time, when she had been lying like a marble figure for a long while, she said in a gentle, reasonable voice:
“Ah, Father Fay, that isn’t the reason! Religion is different from everything else; because in religion seeking is finding.”
