to the overture to _Tannhauser_, there came
back to her the memory of that night. Ever through the mad Satanic
discords she could hear, now faint, now conquering, the Pilgrims' onward
march. So through the jangled discords of the world one heard the Song
of Life. Through the dim aeons of man's savage infancy; through the
centuries of bloodshed and of horror; through the dark ages of tyranny
and superstition; through wrong, through cruelty, through hate; heedless
of doom, heedless of death, still the nightingale's song: "I love you. I
love you. I love you. We will build a nest. We will rear our brood. I
love you. I love you. Life shall not die."

Joan crept back into bed. A new wonder had come to her. And from that
night Joan's belief in Mrs. Munday's God began to fade, circumstances
helping.

Firstly there was the great event of going to school. She was glad to
get away from home, a massive, stiffly furnished house in a wealthy
suburb of Liverpool. Her mother, since she could remember, had been an
invalid, rarely leaving her bedroom till the afternoon. Her father, the
owner of large engineering works, she only saw, as a rule, at
dinner-time, when she would come down to dessert. It had been different
when she was very young, before her mother had been taken ill. Then she
had been more with them both. She had dim recollections of her father
playing with her, pretending to be a bear and growling at her from behind
the sofa. And then he would seize and hug her and they would both laugh,
while he tossed her into the air and caught her. He had looked so big
and handsome. All through her childhood there had been the desire to
recreate those days, to spring into the air and catch her arms about his
neck. She could have loved him dearly if he had only let her. Once,
seeking explanation, she had opened her heart a little to Mrs. Munday. It
was disappointment, Mrs. Munday thought, that she had not been a boy; and
with that Joan had to content herself. Maybe also her mother's illness
had helped to sadden him. Or perhaps it was mere temperament, as she
argued to herself later, for which they were both responsible. Those
little tricks of coaxing, of tenderness, of wilfulness, by means of which
other girls wriggled their way so successfully into a warm nest of cosy
affection: she had never been able to employ them. Beneath her
self-confidence was a shyness, an immovable reserve that had always
prevented he