Near the doorway of a house in a narrow street, where Death had lodged yesterday night, stood a Priest. A woman, passing by, knelt at his feet, passionately kissed the hem of his robe, and hurried on, beneath an Arch, into a Garden where there were many flowers and a Shrine to the Blessed Virgin.
The Priest did not move. But a flush of unwonted color rose into his white face and made it crimson with shame.
"After all these years," he sighed.
"Ave Maria! Ave Maria!" wailed the voice of the woman in the Garden where there were many flowers, before the Shrine of the Blessed Virgin.