ghts made
a jumble in his mind. From his attic he could see, over the roofs of the
houses opposite, the outlines of the Quarrymore Hills, clearly defined
in the light of the rising moon. Half way between him and them the air
was dimly red with the glow of the unseen furnaces in the valley. He
heard the loud roar of the invisible fires, and now and then the clank
of iron. His thoughts were not on these things, but he was vaguely
conscious of them.

He had taken his earliest look at the real tragedy of life. The peril of
the woman's soul was the first thing to emerge clearly from the chaos of
his thoughts. Her flippant, reckless acceptance of the certainty of
her own damnation horrified him. Out of the streets, out of the bestial
degradation of that life of shame and drink, into sheer hell? No chance?
No hope? Surely Christ had died! But only for those who owned Him,
and called upon Him! No, no, and a thousand times no! It was not to be
believed, not to be borne. It was hateful, horrible, monstrous. The poor
degraded thing had punishment enough already. She was in hell already.

The bruised reed, the smoking flax! He fell upon his knees, and his soul
seemed to melt in a flood of anguished pity. He wept passionately, with
an incoherent clamour in his heart of 'God--God--God!'

The storm wore itself out, but he knelt there long, with his hands on
the window-sill, and his face buried in them. He had been too agitated
to find words, and now he was too tired and empty even to wish for them.
His eyes were dry, and his lips were harsh and salt with his tears.

He looked up, and the whole night had changed. The moon rode high,
and was nearly at the full. The skies were spangled with thousands on
thousands of glittering stars. He thrust out his head and looked upward
into the vast blue of the night Out from the stainless sky fell one
warm, heavy drop full on his upturned forehead. To his worn thoughts it
was like an angel's tear. He nestled beside the open window, and gazed
from star to star, seeming idly to trace an intricate winding road of
blue amongst them. Peace came back to him, an empty peace, no more than
a mental languor. He slept at last, and awoke stiff and chill to find
the light of morning creeping along a clouded east.

All that day one purpose was present to his mind. When the day's work
was over and he was free, he dressed and walked into the street He
roamed up and down it from end to end, and several times he