wed their appreciation by thunderous applause.

The screen was again a blank; then it filled suddenly with the great
Upper Quarry in The Gore. The granite ledges sloped upward to meet the
blue of the sky. The great steel derricks and their crisscrossing cables
cast curiously foreshortened shadows on the gleaming white expanse. Here
and there a group of men showed dark against a ledge. In the centre, one
of the monster derricks held suspended in its chains a forty-ton block
of granite just lifted from its eternal bed. Beside it a workman showed
like a pigmy.

Some one proposed a three times three for the home quarries. The men
rose to their feet and the cheers were given with a will. The ringing
echo of the last had not died away when the quarry vanished, and in its
place stood the finished cathedral of A.--the work which the hands of
those present were to create. It was a reproduction of the architect's
water-color sketch.

The men still remained standing; they gave no outward expression to
their admiration; that, indeed, although evident in their faces, was
overshadowed by something like awe. _Their_ hands were to be the
instruments by which this great creation of the mind of man should
become a fact. Without those hands the architect's idea could not be
materialized; without the "idea" their daily work would fail.

The truth went home to each man present--even to that unknown one
beneath the gallery who, when the men had risen to cheer, shrank farther
into his dark corner and drew short sharp breaths. The Past would not
down at his bidding; he was beginning to feel his weakness when he had
most need of strength.

He did not hear Father Honore's parting words:--"Here you find the third
crystal--strength, solidity, the bedrock of endeavor. Take these three
home with you:--the pure crystal of human love and trust, the heart
believing in its Maker, the strength of good character. There you have
the three that make for equality in this world--and nothing else does.
Good night, my friends."

VI

Father Honore got home from the lecture a little before nine. He renewed
the fire, drew up a chair to the hearth, took his violin from its case
and, seating himself before the springing blaze, made ready to play for
a while in the firelight. This was always his refreshment after a
successful evening with the men. He drew his thumb along the bow--

There was a knock at the door. He rose and flung it wide with a human
enou