We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
f/smssw%
He told John Sterling of his belief in the beautiful woman he had married. He waved a deprecating hand to the ballroom, where Helen was making tragical the hearts of other wives and sweethearts. "All that," he said, "it doesn't suffice her. I know it. Her beauty . . . but there is more, Mr. Sterling. There is more. If you, with your vision, your burning beliefs in things beyond, if you might quicken her spirit in her ..."
That had been two months ago. John Sterling had quickened her spirit. Henry Rowland admitted that. He had quickened her spirit till it glowed from her beautiful flesh like a beautiful flame and burned up the chaff of her frivolities like so much straw and grass. But in the quickening there was no place for him, for Henry Rowland. Less, even, than there had been when her ballroom had been throbbing with bacchanalia and her cheeks had been roses red. Far less. Then there had been the vague fear of many things, which allows of rest, permits hope. Now there was the fear of one
There were times when Helen reminded him of some wondering, worldly novice standing, with half-hesitant feet, on the threshold of her holy novitiate. He would often come upon her in her dressing-room, at her private 'phone, with that sense of listening, of waiting, upon her. He grew desperate. Hope had been too long deferred. He had been a fool, an arrant fool, to trust the conversion of the seductive Helen to man, mere man, be his vestments ever so holy, his calling ever so high. He thought of little things — that time he had come upon them — alone — in .his Westchester home. What had they been doing there — alone? Was such solitude, such remoteness, necessary for conversion? He had stopped to listen.
"The moon riding up into the heavens is enough for me," Helen's voice had come to him. "The moon is like a flower, soft, expansive ..."
"Back of the moon," John Sterling's voice had said, "is the moon's Creator. If you must worship beauty, Mrs.
thing, one person, one, to Henry Rowland, terrible person. The fear of John Sterling, priest, who was yet a man, man who was essentially priest. Flesh with the (7\ Voice of God made manifest.
T6T44
Afi£
Rowland, you must come at last to the Creator of all beauty — to God." Helen had turned to him swiftly, (Continued on page 104)
"It .is from the
Bishop," she said.
"You are rein
stated"