g out his punishment. Only the day before the meeting he had read
of the massacre at Damascus from a newspaper which had been left on
his doorstep overnight. Elder Fairley had so far broken the covenant of
ostracism and boycott, knowing David's love for his Uncle Benn.

All that night David paced the hillside in anxiety and agitation,
and saw the sun rise upon a new world--a world of freedom, of
home-returning, yet a world which, during the past four months, had
changed so greatly that it would never seem the same again.

The sun was scarce two hours high when Faith and her father mounted the
hill to bring him home again. He had, however, gone to Heddington
to learn further news of the massacre. He was thinking of his Uncle
Benn-all else could wait. His anxiety was infinitely greater than
that of Luke Claridge, for his mind had been disturbed by frequent
premonitions; and those sudden calls in his sleep-his uncle's
voice--ever seemed to be waking him at night. He had not meant to speak
at the meeting, but the last words of the speaker decided him; he was
in a flame of indignation. He heard the voice of Faith whisper over the
heads of the people. "David, David, do thee speak." Turning, he met her
eyes, then rose to his feet, came steadily to the platform, and raised a
finger towards the chairman.

A great whispering ran through the audience. Very many recognised
him, and all had heard of him--the history of his late banishment and
self-approving punishment were familiar to them. He climbed the steps
of the platform alertly, and the chairman welcomed him with nervous
pleasure. Any word from a Quaker, friendly to the feeling of national
indignation, would give the meeting the new direction which all desired.

Something in the face of the young man, grown thin and very pale during
the period of long thought and little food in the lonely and meditative
life he had led; something human and mysterious in the strange tale of
his one day's mad doings, fascinated them. They had heard of the liquor
he had drunk, of the woman he had kissed at the cross-roads, of the
man he had fought, of his discipline and sentence. His clean, shapely
figure, and the soft austerity of the neat grey suit he wore, his
broad-brimmed hat pushed a little back, showing well a square white
forehead--all conspired to send a wave of feeling through the audience,
which presently broke into cheering.

Beginning with the usual formality, he said: "I am obl