And So the Light Led Me

He had been to see Sister Theresa, and Marian was
walking with him to the gate. I saw her quite plainly
in the light that fell from the lamp overhead. A long
cloak covered her, and a fur toque capped her graceful
head. My grandfather and his guide were apparently
in high spirits. Their laughter smote harshly upon me.
It seemed to shut me out,-to lift a barrier against me.
The world lay there within the radius of that swaying
light, and I hung aloof, hearing her voice and jealous of
the very companionship and sympathy between them.

But the light led me. I remembered with bitterness
that I had always followed her,-whether as Olivia,
trailing in her girlish race across the snow, or as the
girl in gray, whom I had followed, wondering, on that
night journey at Christmas Eve; and I followed now.
The distrust, my shattered faith, my utter loneliness,
could not weigh against the joy of hearing that laugh
of hers breaking mellowly on the night.

I paused to allow the two figures to widen the distance
between us as they traversed the path that curved
away toward the chapel. I could still hear their voices,
and see the lantern flash and disappear. I felt an impulse
to turn back, or plunge into the woodland; but I
was carried on uncontrollably. The light glimmered,
and her voice still floated back to me. It stole through
the keen winter dark like a memory of spring; and so
her voice and the light led me.