She had the good fortune to be alone in a crowd.  Her neighbour, a grizzled old man with his daughters beyond, was her only neighbour, and a stranger.  At her left rose up the red-covered barricade over which she could see the sanctuary and the curtain; and her seat in the tribune, raised some eight feet above the floor, removed her from any possibility of conversation.  She was thankful for that:  she did not want to talk; she wanted only to control her faculties in silence, to reassert her faith, to look out over this enormous throng gathered to pay homage to the great Spirit whom they had betrayed, to renew her own courage and faithfulness.  She wondered what the preacher would say, whether there would be any note of penitence.  Maternity was his subject—­that benign aspect of universal life—­tenderness, love, quiet, receptive, protective passion, the spirit that soothes rather than inspires, that busies itself with peaceful tasks, that kindles the lights and fires of home, that gives sleep, food and welcome....

The bell stopped, and in the instant before the music began she heard, clear above the murmur within, the roar of the crowds outside, who still demanded their God.  Then, with a crash, the huge organ awoke, pierced by the cry of the trumpets and the maddening throb of drums.  There was no delicate prelude here, no slow stirring of life rising through labyrinths of mystery to the climax of sight—­here rather was full-orbed day, the high noon of knowledge and power, the dayspring from on high, dawning in mid-heaven.  Her heart quickened to meet it, and her reviving confidence, still convalescent, stirred and smiled, as the tremendous chords blared overhead, telling of triumph full-armed.  God was man, then, after all—­a God who last night had faltered for an hour, but who rose again on this morning of a new year, scattering mists, dominant over his own passion, all-compelling and all-beloved.  God was man, and Felsenburgh his Incarnation!  Yes, she must believe that!  She did believe that!

Then she saw how already the long procession was winding up beneath the screen, and by imperceptible art the light grew yet more acutely beautiful.  They were coming, then, those ministers of a pure worship; grave men who knew in what they believed, and who, even if they did not at this moment thrill with feeling (for she knew that in this respect her husband for one did not), yet believed the principles of this worship and recognised their need of expression for the majority of mankind—­coming slowly up in fours and pairs and units, led by robed vergers, rippling over the steps, and emerging again into the coloured sunlight in all their bravery of Masonic apron, badge and jewel.  Surely here was reassurance enough.

* * * * *

The sanctuary now held a figure or two.  Anxious-faced Mr. Francis, in his robes of office, came gravely down the steps and stood awaiting the procession, directing with almost imperceptible motions his satellites who hovered about the aisles ready to point this way and that to the advancing stream; and the western-most seats were already beginning to fill, when on a sudden she recognised that something had happened.