her in slow inquiry.

"Oh, I know you are surprised," she added, quickly. "I know this seems
unusual--" She paused in momentary hesitation.

The Mystic appeared distressed.

"My--my duty--" he broke in, uneasily. "My duty is to--"

But she checked him suddenly.

[Illustration: "I AM IN NEED OF HELP ... AND YOU CAN HELP ME"]

"Charity is greater than duty!" she said, in a low, impressive tone. By
the same feminine intuition that had made her discard her purse, she saw
that by a semi-mystical appeal--and by that alone--could she hope to
succeed. Laying her hands upon the Sanctuary railing, she leaned
forward, and raised her large eyes to the man's face.

"Which do _you_ consider the greater virtue?" she asked. "Duty or
charity?"

The Mystic looked at her.

"Charity," he said, at last, hesitatingly, "the Prophet teaches us--"

Enid's face flushed.

"Yes! yes!" she cried. "The Prophet teaches us that charity is the
greater virtue. He tells us that we are to rely upon ourselves--and also
upon each other. We are to help ourselves--and to help each other." Her
voice shook, her face glowed in her excitement and suspense.

"I am in need of help," she added. "In desperate need. And you can help
me."

Her tone was urgent, her compelling gaze never faltered. She knew that
this was her last chance--that, if this man failed her, catastrophe was
inevitable.

The Mystic stirred uncomfortably, and his glance turned half fearfully
from the intent, appealing face to the lectern on which rested the
white-bound Scitsym.

With a sudden access of enthusiasm, Enid spoke again.

"There is something troubling my Soul," she said. "Something that I must
confess to the Prophet to-night. My whole happiness--all my
peace--depends upon confessing it. I cannot speak with him before the
Gathering assembles; but I can write my confession. Will you save my
Soul? Will you carry my confession to him?"

Until the words were actually spoken, she did not realize how immensely
she had staked upon her chances of success. In a fever of anxiety she
waited, watching the man's gaze as it wavered undecidedly over the
Scitsym, then returned, as if magnetized, to her face.

"In twenty minutes the Gathering will be assembled," he murmured.

"I know, I know. But there is still time. It is a matter of--of
faith--of peace of mind."

The man shuffled his feet.

"It--it is impossible," he said.

"Why impossible?"

"Because the Prophet is exalte