pray for the sake of Thy dear Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, who
died for our sins upon the bloody Cross."

"Amen."

From between her hands Maggie watched those two strange eyes wandering
about the Chapel, picking up here a person, there a person, wondering
over this, wondering over that, and always, in the end, concerned not
about these things at all but about some other more ultimate
loneliness, fear or expectation, something that set him apart and made
him, as are all men in the final recesses of their spirit, as lonely as
though he were by himself on a desert island.

The thrill of anticipation faded through the Chapel as Thurston
continued his prayer. He had not to-night, at any rate, power over his
audience--the thing that they were waiting for was something that he
could not satisfy. A restlessness was abroad; coughing broke out once,
twice, then everywhere; chairs creaked, sighs could be heard, some one
moved to the door. Thurston seemed to realise his failure; with a
sudden snap of impatience he brought prayer to an end and rose to his
feet.

"We will sing," he said, "No. 341. 'Bathed in the blood of the Lamb.'"

The singing of the hymn roused the excitement of the congregation to
even more than its earlier pitch. The tune was a moving one, beginning
very softly, beseeching God to listen, then, more confident, rising to
a high note of appeal:

By all Thy sores and bloody pain Come down and heal our sins again;

falling, after that, to a note of confidence and security in the last
refrain:

By the blood, by the blood, by the blood of the Lamb We beseech Thee--

In spite of the crudity of the words and the simplicity of the tune
Maggie had tears in her eyes. The whole Chapel was singing now, singing
as though the sins of the world could be redeemed only by the force and
power of this especial moment. Maggie was caught up with the rest. She
found herself singing parts of the second verse, then in the third she
was carried away, had forgotten herself, her surroundings, even Martin.
There was something real in this, something beyond the ugliness of the
Chapel and its congregation. She remembered what Mr. Magnus had said:
"If there's something of great value, don't think the less of it
because the people, including yourself, who admire it, aren't worth
very much. Why should they be?"

She looked for a moment at Aunt Anne and saw her in an ecstasy, singing
in her cracked tuneless voice, a smile about her lip