on high that his mission was not to be an unworthy one.

Drew always had the power, even in his weakest moments, to utilize his
panic to more intense concentration. It was the faculty that had made
his college president point to him on more than one occasion as a
success. Now, with the anchor of his notes fluttering in the September
breeze, he put out to sea.

"We brought nothing into this world, and it's certain we can carry
nothing out."

"He's mistaking this for a funeral," thought Gaston, and he struggled to
conquer his inclination to laugh.

But what was happening? The boy up aloft was refuting the statement. His
voice had a power wholly out of proportion to the frail body. He was
getting hold of the people, too, Peggy Falstar was crying openly, and
slow, hard-brought tears were dimming many eyes.

They were being told, those plain, dull people, and by a mere boy, too,
that they had brought something into the world. A heritage of strength
and weakness; of good and evil, bequeathed to them by those who had gone
on. From these fragments their souls must weave what is to be taken with
them when Death comes. The effort, the struggle, the success or failure,
will be the part that they leave behind for them who remain, or who are
to come later. In words strangely adapted to his listeners, that frail
boy, with glorified face, was beseeching them, as they valued their
future hope, as they desired to make better the ones who must live
later, to gain a victory over their heritage of weakness and sin by the
God-given elements of strength and goodness, and to blaze the trail for
themselves, and to leave it so free behind them that weak, stumbling
feet might easier find the way.

He was speaking to fathers and mothers for the sakes of their children.
He was urging the two about to marry to see to it that they prepare by
their own consecration, the _path on before_.

A silence filled the little church. The boy, pale and exhausted, was
asking Jude and Joyce to come forward.

Gaston saw them go, side by side, Jude shambling as usual, Joyce
stepping as if hastening to receive something long-desired.

It was the briefest of services. Simple, unadorned, but dignified and
solemn.

Amen!

It was over. Jude and Joyce were married! The people were stirring; were
moving about. The sodden, familiar life was awaiting every one of them.
No; something had happened in St. Ange. Gaston knew it. Filmer knew it.
Peggy Falstar had h