I think, to
men who, banded together on some secret service, wait for the moment
when they are to declare themselves and, by that action, transform the
world. Until that moment comes they must lead their ordinary daily
lives, seem as careless of the future as their fellows, laugh and eat
and work and play as though nothing beyond the business of the day were
their concern. But in their hearts is the responsibility of their
secret knowledge. They cannot be as other men knowing what they do,
they cannot be to one another as they are to other men with the bond of
their common duty shared between them. Much has been given them, much
will be demanded of them; and when the day comes it will not be the
events of that day that will test them but the private history, known
only to themselves and their Master, of the hours that have preceded
that day."

"I tell you what I have often told you before from this same place,
that beside the history of the spirit the history of the body is
nothing--and that history of the spirit is no easy, tranquil progress
from birth to death, but must rather be, if we are to have any history
at all, a struggle, a wrestling, a contest, bloody, unceasing,
uncertain in its issue from the first hour until the last. This is no
mere warning spoken from the lips only by one who, from sheer weekly
necessity, may seem to you formal and official; it is as urgent, as
deeply from the heart as though it were a summons from a messenger who
has come to you directly from his Master. I beg of you to consider your
responsibility, which is greater than that of other men. We are
brothers bound together by a great expectation, a great preparation, a
great trust. We are in training for a day when more will be demanded of
us than of any other men upon the earth. That is no light thing. Let us
hold ourselves then as souls upon whom a great charge is laid."

When he had ended and knelt again to pray Maggie felt instantly the
inevitable reaction. The harmonium quavered and rumbled over the first
bars of some hymn which began with the words, "Cry, sinner, cry before
the altar of the Lord," the man with the brown, creaking boots walked
about with a collection plate, an odour of gas-pipes, badly heated,
penetrated the building, the rain lashed the grey window-panes. Maggie,
looking about her, could not see in the pale, tired faces of the women
who surrounded her the ardent souls of a glorious band. Their belief in
the coming