illed and hurt by the most delicate pressures.

She did not think of the sisters. She saw the deep rose flush of the
windows in the dimly lighted chapel across the court, and knew
vaguely, perhaps, that the music came from there. But it carried her
beyond all thought.

She did not hear the words of the hymn. Would not have understood them
if she had heard. But the lifting of hearts to _Our Life, our
Sweetness and our Hope_ caught her heart up into a world where words
were never needed.

She heard the cry of the _Banished children of Eve_. The _Mourning and
weeping in this vale of tears_ swept into her soul like the flood-tide
of all the sorrow of all the world.

On and upwards the music carried her, until she could hear the
triumph, until her soul rang with the glory and the victory of _The
Promises of Christ_.

The music ceased. She saw the light fade from the chapel windows,
leaving only the one little blood-red spot of light before the altar.
She lay there trembling, not daring to move, while the echo of that
unseen choir caught her heartstrings and set them ringing to the
measure of the heart of the world.

It was not the unembodied cry of the pain and helplessness but the
undying hope of the world that she had heard. It was the cry of the
little blind ones of all the earth. It was the cry of martyrs on their
pyres. It was the cry of strong men and valiant women crushed under
the forces of life. And it was the voice of the Catholic Church, which
knows what the soul of the world is saying. Ruth Lansing knew this.
She realised it as she lay there trembling.

Always, as long as life was in her; always, whether she worked or
laughed, cried or played; always that voice would grip her heart and
play upon it and lead her whether she would or no.

It would lead her. It would carry her. It would send her.

Through all the long night she fought it. She would not! She would not
give up her life, her will, her spirit! Why? Why? Why must she?

It would take her spirit out of the freedom of the hills and make it
follow a trodden way. It would take her life out of her hands and
maybe ask her to shut herself up, away from the sun and the wind, in a
darkened convent. It would take her will, the will of a soldier's
daughter, and break it into little pieces to make a path for her to
walk upon!

No! No! No! Through all the endless night she moaned her protest. She
would not! She would not give in to it.

It would never