If I have scolded forgive me. Let me
leave with you my blessing, and my earnest prayer that you will not
pass by God on the other side. The day will come when you cannot pass
Him by. Meet Him first of your own accord and then when that other day
comes He will know you as a friend ..."

The old man's voice faltered, failed, stopped. He himself seemed to be
deeply affected. Was it acting? Maggie could not tell. At any rate he
was old and ill and very shortly to die ...

The woman next her was crying rubbing the knuckles of her shabby old
gloves in her eyes, the bugles on her bonnet shaking like live things.

She snuffled through her nose to Maggie "Beautiful--beautiful--I
'aven't 'eard such preaching since I don't know when."

Thurston again rose.

"A solo will now be sung," he said. "After the singing of the solo
there will be a prayer offered, then a procession, headed by the choir,
will be formed to march, with lanterns, through the town, as a witness
to the glory of God. It is hoped that those of the congregation who
have received comfort and help during this service will join in the
procession. There will be a collection for the expenses of the Mission
at the door."

Maggie watching him wondered. Of what was he thinking? Was there any
truth in him? Had he, perhaps, behind the sham display and
advertisement that he had been building felt something stirring? Was he
conscious, against his own will, of his falsehood? Had he, while
building only his own success, made a discovery? She looked at him. The
dramatic mask hid him from her. She could not, tell what he was.

The soprano, who had sung a verse of the hymn earlier in the evening,
now undertook "Hear my Prayer." Very beautifully she sang it.

"Hear my prayer, Oh, God, incline Thine ear, Thyself from my distresses
do not hide ..."

The voice rose, soaring through the building to meet the silver stars
and the naked cherubs on the ceiling. "The enemy shouteth ... The enemy
shouteth ..."

Skeaton sat enraptured. Women let the tears stream down their faces,
men blew their noses.

Once again the voice arose.

"Hear my prayer, Oh, God, incline Thine ear ..."

It was Maggie's voice, Maggie's cry. From the very heart of the
charlatanism she cried out, appealing to a God who might exist or no,
she could not tell, but who seemed now to be leading her by the hand.
She saw Aunt Anne at St. Dreot's whispering "The Lord is my Shepherd.
He shall lead me ..."

In