at, thin, quavering writing, asking her to come early
in the morning. Sometimes she was a little tired and had to lie down
again. She had been waiting for Joan. She had a present for her.

The morning promised to be fair, and she decided to walk by way of the
Embankment. The great river with its deep, strong patience had always
been a friend to her. It was Sunday and the city was still sleeping. The
pale December sun rose above the mist as she reached the corner of
Westminster Bridge, turning the river into silver and flooding the silent
streets with a soft, white, tender light.

The tower of Chelsea Church brought back to her remembrance of the wheezy
old clergyman who had preached there that Sunday evening, that now seemed
so long ago, when her footsteps had first taken her that way by chance.
Always she had intended making inquiries and discovering his name. Why
had she never done so? It would surely have been easy. He was someone
she had known as a child. She had become quite convinced of that. She
could see his face close to hers as if he had lifted her up in his arms
and was smiling at her. But pride and power had looked out of his eyes
then.

It was earlier than the time she had fixed in her own mind and, pausing
with her elbows resting on the granite parapet, she watched the ceaseless
waters returning to the sea, bearing their burden of impurities.

"All roads lead to Calvary." It was curious how the words had dwelt with
her, till gradually they had become a part of her creed. She remembered
how at first they had seemed to her a threat chilling her with fear. They
had grown to be a promise, a hope held out to all. The road to Calvary!
It was the road to life. By the giving up of self we gained God.

And suddenly a great peace came to her. One was not alone in the fight,
God was with us: the great Comrade. The evil and the cruelty all round
her: she was no longer afraid of it. God was coming. Beyond the menace
of the passing day, black with the war's foul aftermath of evil dreams
and hatreds, she saw the breaking of the distant dawn. The devil should
not always triumph. God was gathering His labourers.

God was conquering. Unceasing through the ages, God's voice had crept
round man, seeking entry. Through the long darkness of that dim
beginning, when man knew no law but self, unceasing God had striven:
until at last one here and there, emerging from the brute, had heard--had
listened