there is the hall， through which everyone passes in going inand out； the drawing-room， where one receives formal visits；the sitting-room， where the members of the family come andgo as they list； but beyond that， far beyond， are other rooms，the handles of whose doors perhaps are never turned； no oneknows the way to them， no one knows whither they lead； andin the innermost room， the holy of holies， the soul sits aloneand waits for a footstep that never comes.”
“And your husband，” asked the Spirit， after a pause， “nevergot beyond the family sitting-room？”
“Never，” she returned， impatiently； “and the worst of itwas that he was quite content to remain there. He thought itperfectly beautiful， and sometimes， when he was admiring itscommonplace furniture， insignificant as the chairs and tablesof a hotel parlor， I felt like crying out to him： ‘Fool， will younever guess that close at hand are rooms full of treasures andwonders， such as the eye of man hath not seen， rooms that nostep has crossed， but that might be yours to live in， could youbut find the handle of the door？’”
“Then，” the Spirit continued， “those moments of which youlately spoke， which seemed to come to you like scattered hintsof the fulness of life， were not shared with your husband？”
“Oh， no—never. He was different. His boots creaked， and healways slammed the door when he went out， and he never readanything but railway novels and the sporting advertisementsin the papers—and—and， in short， we never understood eachother in the least.”
“To what influence， then， did you owe those exquisitesensations？”
“I can hardly tell. Sometimes to the perfume of a flower；sometimes to a verse of Dante or of Shakespeare； sometimes toa picture or a sunset， or to one of those calm days at sea， whenone seems to be lying in the hollow of a blue pearl； sometimes，but rarely， to a word spoken by someone who chanced to giveutterance， at the right moment， to what I felt but could not express.”
“Someone whom you loved？” asked the Spirit.
“I never loved anyone， in that way，” she said， rather sadly，“nor was I thinking of any one person when I spoke， but of twoor three who， by touching for an instant upon a certain chord ofmy being， had called forth a single note of that strange melodywhich seemed sleeping in my soul. It has seldom happened，however， that I have owed such feelings to people； and no oneever gave me a moment of such happiness as it was my lot tofeel one evening in the Church of Or San Michele， in Florence.”
“Tell me about it，” said the Spirit.
“It was near sunset on a rainy spring afternoon in Easterweek. The clouds had vanished， dispersed by a sudden wind，and as we entered the church the fiery panes of the highwindows shone out like lamps through the dusk. A priest wasat the high altar， his white cope a livid spot in the incenseladenobscurity， the light of the candles flickering up anddown like fireflies about his head； a few people knelt near by.
We stole behind them and sat down on a bench close to thetabernacle of Orcagna.
“Strange to say， though Florence was not new to me， I hadnever been in the church before； and in that magical light Isaw for the first time the inlaid steps， the fluted columns， thesculptured bas-reliefs and canopy of the marvellous shrine.
The marble， worn and mellowed by the subtle hand of time，took on an unspeakable rosy hue， suggestive in some remoteway of the honey-colored columns of the Parthenon， but moremystic， more complex， a color not born of the sun’s inveteratekiss， but made up of cryptal twilight， and the flame of candlesupon martyrs’ tombs， and gleams of sunset through symbolicpanes of chrysoprase and ruby； such a light as illumines themissals in the library of Siena， or burns like a hidden firethrough the Madonna of Gian Bellini in the Church of theRedeemer， at Venice； the light of the Middle Ages， richer， moresolemn， more significant than the limpid sunshine of Greece.
“The church was silent， but for the wail of the priest and theoccasional scraping of a chair against the floor， and as I satthere， bathed in that light， absorbed in rapt contemplation ofthe marble miracle which rose before me， cunningly wroughtas a casket of ivory and enriched with jewel-like incrustationsand tarnished gleams of gold， I felt myself borne onwardalong a mighty current， whose source seemed to be in the verybeginning of things， and whose tremendous waters gatheredas they went all the mingled streams of human passion andendeavor. Life in all its varied manifestations of beauty andstrangeness seemed weaving a rhythmical dance around meas I moved， and wherever the spirit of man had passed I knewthat my foot had once been familiar.
