ked hard during these last years, he had immensely
improved his accent, and his h's were all in their right places. He
read very dramatically, dropping his voice to a whisper, then pausing
and staring in front of him as though he saw God only a few yards away.
The people of Skeaton had had few opportunities of any first-class
dramatic entertainment. When Thurston finished there passed through the
building a wave of excitement, a stir, a faint murmur. An old woman
next to Maggie wiped her eyes. "Lovely!" Maggie heard her whisper.
"Lovely!"

They sang, then, another hymn, accompanied by the orchestra. This was a
dramatic hymn with a fiery martial tune:

The Lord of War He cometh down With Sword and Shield and Armour Bright,
His armies all behind him Frown, Who can withstand His Light?

Chorus. Trumpets Blare, The drum-taps Roll, Prepare to meet Thy God, Oh
Soul! Prepare! Prepare! Prepare to meet Thy God, oh Soul!

Never before had the men and women of Skeaton heard such hymns. The
Revival of ten years ago, lacking the vibrant spirit of Mr. John
Thurston, had been a very different affair. This was something quite
new in all Skeaton experience. Red-hot expectation flamed now in every
eye. Maggie could feel that the old woman next to her was trembling all
over.

Thurston announced:

"Brother Crashaw will now deliver an address."

Brother Crashaw, his head still lowered, very slowly got up from his
seat. He moved as though it were only with the utmost difficulty and
power of self-will that his reluctant body could be compelled into
action. He crept rather than walked from his chair to the reading-desk,
then very very painfully climbed on to the high platform. Maggie,
watching him, remembered that earlier time when he had climbed into
just such another desk. She remembered also that day at her aunts'
house when he had flirted with Caroline and shown himself quite another
Brother Crashaw. He had aged greatly since then. He seemed now to be
scarcely a man at all. Then suddenly, with a jerk, as though a string
had been pulled from behind, he raised his face and looked at them all.
Yes, that was alive. Monkey's mask you might call it, but the eyes
behind the yellow lids flamed and blazed. No exaggeration those words.
A veritable fire burned there, a fire, it might be, of mere physical
irritation and savage exasperation at the too-rapid crumbling of the
wilfully disobedient body, a glory, perhaps, of obstinate pride and
co