: all the spiteful screamers who had
never risked a scratch, themselves, denouncing him as a coward. The
local Dogberrys of the tribunals would fire off their little stock of
gibes and platitudes upon him, propound with owlish solemnity the new
Christianity, abuse him and condemn him, without listening to him.
Jeering mobs would follow him through the streets. More than once, of
late, she had encountered such crowds made up of shrieking girls and foul-
mouthed men, surging round some white-faced youngster while the
well-dressed passers-by looked on and grinned.

She came to him and stood over him with her hands upon his shoulders.

"Must you, dear?" she said. "Can't you reconcile it to yourself--to go
on with your work of mercy, of saving poor folks' lives?"

He raised his eyes to hers. The shadow that, to her fancy, had always
rested there seemed to have departed. A light had come to them.

"There are more important things than saving men's bodies. You think
that, don't you?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "I won't try to hold you back, dear, if you think
you can do that."

He caught her hands and held them.

"I wanted to be a coward," he said, "to keep out of the fight. I thought
of the shame, of the petty persecutions--that even you might despise me.
But I couldn't. I was always seeing His face before me with His
beautiful tender eyes, and the blood drops on His brow. It is He alone
can save the world. It is perishing for want of love; and by a little
suffering I might be able to help Him. And then one night--I suppose it
was a piece of driftwood--there rose up out of the sea a little cross
that seemed to call to me to stretch out my hand and grasp it, and gird
it to my side."

He had risen. "Don't you see," he said. "It is only by suffering that
one can help Him. It is the sword that He has chosen--by which one day
He will conquer the world. And this is such a splendid opportunity to
fight for Him. It would be like deserting Him on the eve of a great
battle."

She looked into his eager, hopeful eyes. Yes, it had always been so--it
always would be, to the end. Not priests and prophets, but ever that
little scattered band of glad sufferers for His sake would be His army.
His weapon still the cross, till the victory should be won.

She glanced through the open door to where the poor, broken fellows she
always thought of as "her boys" lay so patient, and then held out her
hand to him with