Pitifully often the man does not care. Sometimes he does not even
suspect that he has been admitted into the inmost sanctuary of her
heart, for there are men who may never know what sanctuary means, nor
what the opening of the door has cost. But the man who is worthy will
kneel at the altar for a moment, with the woman beside him, and
thereafter, when the outside world has been cruel to him, he may go in
sometimes, with her, to warm his hands at those divine fires and kindle
his failing courage anew.
When the sanctuary is not profaned by him who has come hither, its
blessedness is increased ten-fold; it takes on a certain divinity by
being shared, and thereafter, they serve the light together.
And yet, through woman's eager trustfulness, the man who opens the door
is not always the one divinely appointed to open it. Sometimes the light
fails and the woman, weeping in the darkness, is left alone in her
profaned temple, never to open its door again, or, after many years, to
set another light high upon the altar, and, in the deepening shadows,
pray.
So, because the door had never been opened, and because she knew the man
had come at last who might enter the sanctuary with her, Rose lifted her
ever-burning light that night to the high altar of her soul, and set
herself to wait until he should find his way there.
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