ht a thrill of angry fear--a fear which was an inevitable after
effect of her very orthodox training. God, she felt dimly, did not like
people to be very happy. He was a jealous God. He was probably angry now
because she had come to church thinking more of Dr. Callandar than of
Him. "Thou shalt have no other Gods before me!" Awful, mystical words!
Did they mean that one couldn't have any human god at all? Not even a
near, kind protecting god--like the doctor? It frightened her.

She found herself explaining to God that her lover was not really a
rival. That although she loved him so terribly it was in quite a
different way and would never interfere with her religious duties. Then,
feeling the futility of this, she pretended carelessness, trying to
deceive God into the belief that she didn't think so very much of the
doctor anyway.

This was in the prayer, while she sat with her eyes decorously shaded by
her hand. Above her in the pulpit, the minister in an ecstasy of
petition set forth the needs of the church, the state and the
individual. Esther did not hear a word until a sudden dropping of his
voice forced a certain phrase upon her attention. He was praying, with
an especial poignancy for "that blessing which maketh rich and addeth
no sorrow."

Was there such a blessing? A blessing which would make rich and add no
sorrow? No wonder the minister prayed for it. To Esther, whose mind was
saturated with the idea of God as the author of chastenings, the
possibility came with a shock of joy. She, too, began to pray, and she
prayed for one thing only, over and over--the blessing that maketh rich
and addeth no sorrow. There was no need, she felt, to specify further.
God was sure to guess what blessing she meant.

A subdued rustle, a swaying as of barley in a gentle breeze and the
prayer was over. Esther removed her hand from her eyes and looked up at
the minister. For a tiny second his glance met hers. A thrill shot
through her, a thrill of dismay. With all the force of a new idea, it
came to her that she and he were in the same parlous case. He loved her,
as she loved--somebody else.

And that meant that he must suffer, suffer as she had suffered last
night. Last week when he had told her of his love she had been
surprised, sorry and a little angry. But last week he had spoken of
unknown things. Love and suffering had been words to her then, now they
were realities.

Then, for she was learning quickly now, came anoth