g--and it's partly been my fault. I wasn't good at first, I
wanted to be kind, but I was stiff and shy. You wouldn't think that I'm
shy? I am, terribly. I always have been since I was very little, and
just to enter a room when other people are there makes me so
embarrassed ... I remember once when mother was alive her scolding me
because I wouldn't come in to a tea-party. But I couldn't; I stood
outside the door in an agony, doing everything to make myself go
in--but I couldn't ... But now I've come to love you, dear, although of
course you have your faults. But they are faults of your age,
carelessness, selfishness. They are nothing in the eyes of God, who
understands all our weaknesses. And you must learn to know Him, dear.
That is my only prayer now. If I am taken, if I go before the great
day--if it be His will--then I pray always, now that I may leave you in
my place, waiting for Him as I have waited, trusting Him as I have
trusted ... you saw to-night what it means to us, what it must mean to
any one who has listened. There were times, years ago, when I had not
turned to God, when I did not care, when I thought of earthly love ...
God drew me to Himself ... You too must come, Maggie--you must come.
You mustn't stay outside--you are asked, you are invited--perhaps you
will be compelled ..."

The voice sank: Maggie's teeth chattered in her head from the cold, and
her foot had gone to sleep. She felt obstinate and rebellious and
frightened, she could not think clearly, and the words that came from
her, suddenly, seemed to her not to be her own.

"Aunt Anne, I want to do everything that you and Aunt Elizabeth think I
should, but I must be myself, mustn't I? I'm grown up now; I've got my
three hundred pounds and I don't think I want to be religious. I'm very
grateful to you and Aunt Elizabeth, but I'm not a help to you much, I'm
afraid. I know I'm very careless, I do want to be better, and that's
all the more reason, perhaps, why I should go out and earn my own
living. I'd learn more quickly then. But I do love you and Aunt
Elizabeth ..."

She broke off; she did not love them. She knew that she did not. The
only human being in all the world whom she loved was Martin.
Nevertheless there did come to her suddenly then a new tenderness for
her aunt; the actual sight of her pain in the Chapel had deeply touched
her and now her eagerness for escape was mingled with a longing to be
affectionate and good.

But Aunt Anne d