It was a perfect summer night when Elizabeth leaned out of her window
into the stillness. The roar of the surf was as distinct as if it came
from the pebbled beach below; yet, modulated by distance, it formed the
base, sustained and rythmic, into which there fell harmoniously that
legato treble of murmur which makes us seem to hear the stillness, and
that staccato note of some accidental sound softened to accord with the
mood of the night. She needed the peace that she felt in the air, for
her cheeks were wet with passionate tears and her lips still trembled.
She could give utterance to her trouble now, she was free for hours from
every ear, from every eye, hidden away from all but the sight and
hearing of the God she sought in the dark and the silence.
Brought up in the creed of the Puritans, believing it entirely, as she
supposed, there was yet in her heart when she sent it Heavenward a joy
which sprang from a more loving faith. Perhaps it was because of her own
beautiful human associations with the name that at the words "Our
Father," her heart swelled with confidence that God listened to her
voice, and that his loving kindness wrapped her about.
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