stress is as great as mine. You think of everything.
The service for the sick and dying. How right--how right!"

With a sense of an increase of value in herself, the vicar, and the
vicarage, she hastened back to the pony carriage, but in the hall she
seized Betty's hand emotionally.

"I cannot tell you how much I am touched by this," she murmured. "I did
not know you were--were a religious girl, my dear."

Betty answered with grave politeness.

"In times of great pain and terror," she said, "I think almost everybody
is religious--a little. If that is the right word."

There was no ringing of the ordinary call to service. In less than an
hour's time people began to come out of their cottages and wend their
way towards the church. No one had put on his or her Sunday clothes. The
women had hastily rolled down their sleeves, thrown off their aprons,
and donned everyday bonnets and shawls. The men were in their corduroys,
as they had come in from the fields, and the children wore their
pinafores. As if by magic, the news had flown from house to house, and
each one who had heard it had left his or her work without a moment's
hesitation. They said but little as they made their way to the church.
Betty, walking with her sister, was struck by the fact that there were
more of them than formed the usual Sunday morning congregation. They
were doing no perfunctory duty. The men's faces were heavily moved,
most of the women wiped their eyes at intervals, and the children looked
awed. There was a suggestion of hurried movement in the step of each--as
if no time must be lost--as if they must begin their appeal at once.
Betty saw old Doby tottering along stiffly, with his granddaughter and
Mrs. Welden on either side of him. Marlow, on his two sticks, was to be
seen moving slowly, but steadily.

Within the ancient stone walls, stiff old knees bent themselves with
care, and faces were covered devoutly by work-hardened hands. As
she passed through the churchyard Betty knew that eyes followed her
affectionately, and that the touching of foreheads and dropping of
curtsies expressed a special sympathy. In each mind she was connected
with the man they came to pray for--with the work he had done--with
the danger he was in. It was vaguely felt that if his life ended, a
bereavement would have fallen upon her. This the girl knew.

The vicar lifted his bowed head and began his service. Every man, woman
and child before him responded aloud an