was gone, and I was well. No, not well in one way, but mending.
That is all or almost all of my tale.'

He had told it reverently. Towards the end of the telling, he
himself seemed to wander as he told.

'What was she like?' I asked after a silence.

'She was much like that picture of Saint Lucy,' he said.

'I found a man in the third class, who had taken a really fine
photo of her, not a little snapshot. I had helped him with a
sketch of the voyage he was writing for some magazine, and he was
pleased enough to print me another copy. I sent it home that
month. A friend painted me that panel. I suggested that the name
of the Saint should be Lucy, it was on Saint Lucy's day she had
said "Good-bye." The picture came a day or two before this
Midsummer. He has done wondrously well, I think, if you remember
that he never saw her.'

'How do you know that he never saw her?' I asked.

'Yes, you may well say that,' he said. 'I sometimes think that he
had seen her, even as I. He has painted something of her light
and spirit. Look how she threads' that forest by night!' He held
the candle near, then he pulled it away.

'Forgive me! How can you see her duly by this light? You must
have a real session before her in the morning.'

I awoke early, but not too early, as it seemed to me. Dawn was
growing very bright, and spring seemed to be in the air that came
from the doorway. I sprang up and looked out. Light that was
already almost flame kindled the east. The leaves of the grove
about me had their spring colors on. There was quite enough
illumination to show how brilliant and tender they were ruddy and
green and mauve, and bronze that was almost gold. Day was coming
fast and so was Spring. I turned within and lit the candles on
the Altar. The purple lamp was burning low. I knelt down, and saw
Dawn and Spring, aye, and Summer too, in that picture. Eastern
light was streaming from that lantern Saint Lucy held. It was of
coral and silver set with pearls. Eastern light was in her happy
face. You could see even in that cock-crow dusk in the forest,
how the fig-tree and all the trees were stirring for Spring and
Summer. I took note now that Saint Lucy's wreath was of orchard
leaves and blossoms. I lifted up my thanksgiving there and then,
as the first sunbeams shone about me, for the rest and the light
that I had found, found at last for good as I hope in sultry and
weary Africa.

Soon we were kneeling at the morning Sacrifice