to the voice of love and pity, and in that hour, unknowing, had
built to God a temple in the wilderness.

Labourers together with God. The mighty host of those who through the
ages had heard the voice of God and had made answer. The men and women
in all lands who had made room in their hearts for God. Still nameless,
scattered, unknown to one another: still powerless as yet against the
world's foul law of hate, they should continue to increase and multiply,
until one day they should speak with God's voice and should be heard. And
a new world should be created.

God. The tireless Spirit of eternal creation, the Spirit of Love. What
else was it that out of formlessness had shaped the spheres, had planned
the orbits of the suns. The law of gravity we named it. What was it but
another name for Love, the yearning of like for like, the calling to one
another of the stars. What else but Love had made the worlds, had
gathered together the waters, had fashioned the dry land. The cohesion
of elements, so we explained it. The clinging of like to like. The
brotherhood of the atoms.

God. The Eternal Creator. Out of matter, lifeless void, he had moulded
His worlds, had ordered His endless firmament. It was finished. The
greater task remained: the Universe of mind, of soul. Out of man it
should be created. God in man and man in God: made in like image: fellow
labourers together with one another: together they should build it. Out
of the senseless strife and discord, above the chaos and the tumult
should be heard the new command: "Let there be Love."

The striking of the old church clock recalled her to herself. But she
had only a few minutes' walk before her. Mary had given up her Church
work. It included the cleaning, and she had found it beyond her failing
strength. But she still lived in the tiny cottage behind its long strip
of garden. The door yielded to Joan's touch: it was seldom fast closed.
And knowing Mary's ways, she entered without knocking and pushed it to
behind her, leaving it still ajar.

And as she did so, it seemed to her that someone passing breathed upon
her lips a little kiss: and for a while she did not move. Then, treading
softly, she looked into the room.

It welcomed her, as always, with its smile of cosy neatness. The
spotless curtains that were Mary's pride: the gay flowers in the window,
to which she had given children's names: the few poor pieces of
furniture, polished wit