e Mrs. Blythe's return, she put on her wraps and
slipped out to a little church in the next block, hoping to find some
word to quiet her unrest, either in song, service or sermon. She sat
listening almost feverishly till the minister announced his text: "_No
man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the
kingdom of God."_

It was a sermon extolling sacrifice. The minister, a young man with a
thin, earnest face and deep-set eyes that burned like two dark fires,
seemed to know no call of the flesh. It was all of the spirit. One after
another he cited the examples of the Father Damiens, the Florence
Nightingales of the world, till the whole noble army of martyrs, the
goodly company of the Apostles were marshalled before Mary's accusing
conscience, and she felt herself condemned as unfit to stand with them,
wholly unfit for the kingdom. The closing hymn was as accusing as the
sermon:

"The Son of God goes forth to war. Who follows in His train?

. . . . . .

Who best can drink his cup of woe, triumphant over pain,
Who patient bears his cross below, he follows in His train."

She went away with those lines repeating themselves in her ears. It was
still early when she went home, but Mr. Blythe had retired, so telling
the maid to close the house for the night, she went up to her own room,
where the fire burned cheerfully in the grate. She drew up a little
table before it and brought out her writing material. She had made up
her mind to make the supreme sacrifice of her life, even if it killed
her.

"Keep tryst or die!" she sobbed, as she took up her pen. "Oh, Phil! How
can I write it, that I must give you up?"

It took a long time to tell him. She wanted to make it perfectly clear
to him that it was breaking her heart to do it. She was afraid he
wouldn't understand how she felt about not being fit for the kingdom,
and it was hard to put down in black and white such a deeply personal,
such a spiritual thing as that experience of hearing the voices and
answering the call. But in no other way could she explain. Twice she
broke down utterly, and with her head on her arms on the little table,
cried and sobbed with long shuddering gasps that shook her convulsively.
Once she threw the half-finished letter into the fire, saying fiercely
in a low tone, "I _can't_! Oh, I _can't_! It would be giving up more
than Father Damien did. It's m