It would be her cross of
victory, her crown.
If the gift were noble, so also it could not be ignoble to accept it.
To reject it would be to dishonour it.
She would accept it. The wonder of it should cast out her doubts and
fears. She would seek to make herself worthy of it. Consecrate it with
her steadfastness, her devotion.
She thought it ended. But yet she sat there motionless.
What was plucking at her sleeve--still holding her?
Unknowing, she had entered a small garden. It formed a passage between
two streets, and was left open day and night. It was but a narrow strip
of rank grass and withered shrubs with an asphalte pathway widening to a
circle in the centre, where stood a gas lamp and two seats, facing one
another.
And suddenly it came to her that this was her Garden of Gethsemane; and a
dull laugh broke from her that she could not help. It was such a
ridiculous apology for Gethsemane. There was not a corner in which one
could possibly pray. Only these two iron seats, one each side of the
gaunt gas lamp that glared down upon them.
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