On the following Sunday I went to Chapel in the morning, and to the Parish Church in the evening. As I wended my way thitherwards, I reflected how strange it was that I should make it almost a habit to go to a place of worship on a Sunday. Prior to coming to Cornwall, I had not been inside a Church of any sort for years; indeed, such a thing was alien to my life. I had no interest in it, neither did I see its utility. Indeed, even then I could have given no explanation for my action. Neither Church nor Chapel had given me an answer to things I wanted to know.

As I tried to analyze my reason for going, it seemed that something in the atmosphere of Sunday in Cornwall made it natural. Besides, it gave a kind of mild interest to my life. I had but few friends, and living alone as I did, I grew tired of reading and thinking; thus, when Sunday came, the ringing of the Church bells seemed to call me to a house of prayer. I dare say that if I had been in a country where Mohammedanism or Buddhism was the established faith of the people, I should have gone to their mosques or temples just as I went to Church and Chapel in Cornwall.

To speak quite frankly, I had, up to the present, received no benefit from either. Mostly the pulpit at the Chapel was occupied by some layman, who spoke in a language different from my own. These laymen had read no books expressing the thought of the age, neither did they at all understand the attitude of my mind. That they were simple, earnest men I did not doubt, and yet I often wondered at their daring to occupy the position of religious teachers. What distressed me, moreover, was the fact that most of them appeared very anxious to convince their congregation that they had prepared a fine discourse, rather than to help people. The note of deep experience was too often lacking; and yet almost Sunday by Sunday I found my way there, until my presence caused no remark whatever.

In spite of all this, however, I could not help reflecting that since I came to the little village of St. Issey a subtle change had come over the congregation. Not that the Chapel was very much more largely attended; but there seemed to me to be a spirit of yearning, a deep undertone of feeling among the worshippers. That morning especially did I realize this. The preacher was John Rosewarn, the father of the boy whose death had been recorded the previous week. I will not try to reproduce his sermon.

Intellectually, John Rosewarn had practically nothing to say to me, and yet my heart was moved strangely. The shadow of his loss was brooding over him, and although he had no great mental acumen, he seemed to be feeling his way to the heart of things. There was a deep tenderness in his voice, a new light in his eyes. He made no mention of his son's death, but the fact was felt throughout the whole Church. Many wondered, I myself included, how he could have conducted the service that day, yet he did; and although his message from an intellectual standpoint was poor and unconvincing, there was a sense of reality which I had seldom felt in the homely little building.

The congregation felt this too, and especially was it manifest during the singing of the hymns. One hymn, I remember, the people sang with great fervor. I had never heard it before, and from the standpoint of poetry it had nothing to recommend it, but as these people sang it, it was weighted with meaning.

I saw the tears rolling down the faces of the people as they sang, and I thought I noticed a note of triumph.

When the service was over, John Rosewarn came down from the pulpit into the vestibule and spoke to me.

"Thank you, sir, for calling at our house the other day," he said. "It is a terrible loss, sir, but we shall see our boy again."

I went back to my little house on the cliff thinking deeply. Yes, a subtle change had come over the little congregation. The first excitement of the war was over, but something, I could not define what, had created a new atmosphere. Personally, I was still as much in the dark as ever; and the faith, the suggestion of which I had realized that morning, seemed to rest on utterly insufficient foundations; but I could not deny its existence.

In the evening I found my way to the Parish Church. I saw at a glance that a larger congregation than usual had gathered. I noticed that old Squire Treherne was in the great square Treherne pew. Noticed, too, that Mr. Prideaux, father of young Prideaux, whose name I have mentioned, also several of the larger farmers who seldom came to Church of an evening, were present. What had drawn them there I could not tell, for it was in no way a special service. And yet, perhaps, it was special, for I knew that the sympathies of the people were drawn out towards Mr. Trelaske.

The Vicar did not look so haggard as when he had visited me, but the marks of suffering were plainly to be seen on his face. There was no change in the order of the service. The usual evening prayers were repeated, the Psalms were sung, and the village schoolmaster read the lessons as he was wont to do, and yet here, too, was a suggestion of a change. A deeper note was struck, a new meaning felt. I asked myself why it was so, and wondered if the change were in me or in the people around me. The Vicar conducted the service like a man who was very weary. There was no suggestion of triumph or even conviction in his tones. He seemed to be bearing a heavy burden. When presently the hymn before the sermon was being sung and he left his stall in the choir to go into the pulpit, I wondered what he could say. Had he a message to deliver? Had his sorrow brought him hope, faith?

He preached the shortest sermon, I think, I ever heard. Altogether, I imagine it did not take more than five minutes in its delivery, but the people listened as they had never listened before during the time I had been in St. Issey. He chose for his text a passage from the Psalms: "The fool hath said in his heart, there is no God." When he had read the passage, he waited for some seconds as if not knowing what to say.

"Has it struck you, brethren, that during this ghastly war, in spite of the fact that the greater part of the world is under arms, in spite of the fact that hellish deeds are being done, in spite of the welter of blood and the unutterable carnage, that we have heard no one deny the existence of God? I thought when the war first broke out and assumed such awful proportions, when I realized the misery it was causing, that people would have doubted God, that they would have said, like the enemies of the Psalmist of old, 'Where is now thy God?' I thought that atheism would have lifted its head again and uttered its desolating cry; that men would have said, 'If there is a God, He would not have allowed these things.' And yet worse things have happened than we, at the commencement of the war, thought possible, but I have heard no one deny the existence of God, neither have I heard any one seriously doubt His goodness. Why is it?"

He paused a few seconds and seemed to be communing with himself.

"Brethren," he went on, "we meet under the shadow of a great loss. Some of you, even as I at this moment, feel that we are in the deep waters, and in our heart's agony we cry out to God. We cannot help it."

He ceased again, and a silence, such as I have never known before in a Church, pervaded the building.

"Brethren," he went on, "will you pray for me, and I will pray for you? Pray that we may be led out of darkness into light."

I thought he was going to finish here, thought he was going to utter the usual formula at the conclusion of a sermon, but he went on.

"God is teaching us many lessons—teaching us how foolish we are, how paltry have been our conceptions of Him; teaching us, too, our need of Him. Will the Church, will religion ever be the same to us again? I think not."

Again he stopped, and the people breathlessly waited, as if wondering what he would say next. To me he seemed like a man in doubt as to whether he ought to utter the words which had come into his mind.

"In the past," he went on, "religion, even in our quiet little village, has seemed as though it were divided into two camps. I have avoided the Chapel people and the Chapel people have avoided the Church. I need not say why. I am sure we shall never settle our differences by arguments or by criticisms. There has been too much of that in the past. This is a time when we need to pray, and so I am asking all the people in the parish, whether they belong to Chapel or to Church, to meet in the village schoolroom to-morrow night, to pray—to pray that God will bless our soldiers and sailors, and all who are seeking to help us to destroy this awful scourge of war, to pray for broken hearts at home, to pray that God will lead us all into His light."

He made a long pause here, and we wondered what was to come next. Then suddenly turning his face, as was his custom, he repeated the formula:

"And now to God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost, be all honor, power, and dominion, world without end. Amen."

The little service was at an end. Quietly we left the old building and found our way into the churchyard. As I reached the gates, I felt a hand upon my arm and saw Squire Treherne standing by me.

"Will you come up and have a bite of supper, Erskine?" he said.

"Thank you, Squire, but I dare not. I ought not to have come out to-night."

"I am glad you did, anyhow," was the Squire's reply. "My word! this business is giving us a shaking up. Trelaske has never preached such a sermon before in my hearing."

I could not help smiling, for in truth he had not preached a sermon at all.

"I see what you mean," said the old man. "For that matter Trelaske never could preach; and, mind you, I have been as bitter against dissent as any man, but—but he has done more for religion to-night than he has done for many a long year."

"Are you going to the prayer-meeting, Squire?" I asked.

"What, I! I go to a prayer-meeting!" And he laughed as though it were a joke.

"Yes," I said, "why not? That is, if—if you believe it has any meaning."

"Yes," he said, "why not? After all, why not? Are you sure you won't come up to supper?"

"Quite sure, thank you."

I wandered slowly back to my little house, thinking of what the Vicar had said. Yes, he was quite right. Never, during the beginning of the war, had I heard any one deny the existence of God. It might seem as if there were no God at all, when one remembered the deeds that had been done; yet no one seemed to doubt that God lived and reigned.

I had scarcely reached the footpath which led to my little copse when, to my surprise, I saw Mr. Josiah Lethbridge coming towards me. I judged that he had been to my house, though I did not know why he should do so.

"The evenings are stretching out, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "aren't they? It is nearly half-past seven, and the daylight has not yet gone."

"Yes, the evenings are stretching out," he said, with a sigh.

"Have you heard from Hugh lately?" I asked.

"No, I have not heard from him. I—I do not expect to; you know that."

"I had a letter from him a few weeks ago," I said, as cheerfully as I could. "He sent me his photograph in his lieutenant's uniform. Have you seen it?"

He shook his head.

"Would you care to?" I asked. "It is in the house close by."

"No," he said, and his voice was almost harsh. "No, I do not wish to see it."

"I have just come from the Parish Church," I said. "The Vicar has received a terrible blow, hasn't he?"

"The Vicar believed in that kind of thing—I never did."

"No," was my answer, "I do not think the Vicar believed in it any more than you. He regards war only as a ghastly necessity. But would you, knowing all you know, realizing all our sufferings, and all we shall have to suffer, have had us do differently?"

"You mean——?"

"I mean, would you have the Germans work their will, and dominate the world by material forces? Would you have had them glorify militarism, and set a war-god upon a pinnacle to worship? Would you have Europe accept the teaching of Treitschke and Nietzsche as the gospel of the future, while we did nothing?"

At this he was silent.

"I was at the Wesleyan Chapel this morning," I went on. "I did not see you there."

"No, I did not go."

"John Rosewarn was preaching," I went on. "John has lost his boy Tom."

He hesitated for a few seconds and I thought he seemed on the point of saying something to me, then he held out his hand.

"Good-night, Mr. Erskine," he said, and a few minutes later he was lost to my view.

"That man is deeply troubled," I said to myself as he walked away. "I wonder what he has on his mind."

When I entered my cottage Simpson had not yet returned. He had asked my permission before I went to Church that night if he might be out a little later than usual, as some old friends of his had asked him to supper. Of course I gave my consent, but when I found myself alone in the house I felt almost sorry. What I should have done without him during the hours of the long winter nights I do not know, for although his conversation was not very illuminating, it was always a source of comfort to me to know that he was near.

I sat down to the simple little meal that he had prepared, and then, throwing myself into an armchair, saw the previous day's newspaper lying by my side. I picked it up almost listlessly, and a few seconds later found myself reading an article on the ravages which were being caused by German submarines. This article detailed the list of disasters caused by this method of warfare, then asked questions which had been troubling the writer.

This gentleman, who seemed to know what he was writing about, stated that there must be secret stations along the British coast where the Germans could be supplied with fuel, therefore many traitors to their own country must exist in England. He also insisted that although the shores were constantly watched, hour by hour, and every precaution taken, the Germans had, by some means yet unknown to us, been supplied by people in England with what was essential to their devilish work.

"Has the Government," the article concluded, "been sufficiently stringent in their treatment of enemy aliens? Has it inquired with sufficient care into the means whereby our enemy has caused such appalling losses?"

I must confess, although everything seemed conjectural, that my interest was aroused, and acting on impulse I opened the door and went out into the night. It had now become very dark. Clouds hung heavily in the sky, there was no moon and not a star appeared. The night was not stormy, although a fairly strong breeze was blowing. The tide, I remember, was high, and the sea swept upon the rocks at the base of the cliff on which my hut was situated. I peered into the darkness, calling to mind as I did so the night on which I had seen, what seemed to me, phantom boats appearing round the headland and then becoming lost to view. I waited for a few minutes and then found myself shivering with cold. When I got back to the house Simpson had returned.

"Have you heard the news, sir?"

"What news?" I asked.

"Another vessel sunk, sir, by the submarines. It was struck without warning, and it is feared that every one on board has been lost."

"Where did this happen?"

"I don't know, sir, but some men in the village had got hold of a Sunday newspaper and were talking about it. I heard too that two people, one an English woman, and the other a German man, have been taken up as spies. It seems that they have been supplying the Germans with petrol."

The man's words seemed almost a commentary on what I had been thinking, and I turned, almost unconsciously, to the newspaper I had been reading.

"The Germans are too clever for us, sir, and there is no dirty trick of which they are not capable. I am told they jeered at the people who were trying to save themselves from drowning, and even shot at them. I am not very proud of my county, sir."

"Not proud of your county! Why?"

"Why, sir, there are dozens of young fellows in St. Issey who won't enlist, and I was told to-night of seven of them who are off to America."

"Off to America! Why?"

"Why, it seems that the Squire has been at them and told them they are cowards to stay at home at a time like this. It seems, too, sir, that poor Tom Rosewarn's death, as well as that of the Vicar's son, has roused some of the people terribly, and these young fellows have been called such names that they are ashamed to remain at home, but rather than join the Army, as they ought to do, they are leaving for America. I have never been a believer in conscription, but the stories have very nearly converted me to that way of thinking."

When Simpson had gone to bed, I put on a thick overcoat and again went out into the night. I wondered whether the fancies that had been in my mind had any foundation of truth, and whether I ought not to go to the authorities and make my suspicions known. There were a great many things against such a course of action, however. Local officials were not very clever, and did not act with much finesse. The Germans would be prepared for anything they might do, and if anything were done at all, it must be done dexterously and secretly.

By this time I knew, or at least thought I did, every inch of the cliffs around my home. I had discovered, too, an opening through the bushes which led far down towards the sea. Again acting on impulse, I found this little opening, and scrambled down the steep cliff-side until I came, perhaps, within forty feet of the water. I was entirely hidden from view, as at this part thick brushwood grew to within a few yards of the beach. Besides, it was very dark, and I knew that if I went farther I should risk my life. Up above me the wind soughed its way through the little copse, and over the heights of the beetling cliffs which rose darkly beyond. Out at sea I could hear the sad monotone of the waves. Now and then I heard the cry of a sea-bird, as though it were disturbed in its nest among the rocks.

It was now perhaps eleven o'clock, and every one would, in all probability, be abed, with perhaps the exception of the coast watchers who patrolled the coast. I was on the point of returning to the house when I was startled by the sound of a human voice. I was at this point sheltered from the wind, and my ears, having become accustomed to the noise of the waves and the night winds, could hear plainly:

"Is that the lot?"

There was a reply to this, but what it was I could not say. How long I waited I could not say either. That something was taking place that ought not to take place I was sure. Else why should men be in this lonely cove at midnight on a Sunday? Presently I heard a grating sound, then above the sound of the waves was the splash of oars. I looked intently, but could see nothing, and by and by when I had returned to my house I reflected that my vigils had been in vain. Yet not in vain, for I determined, whatever might be the danger accruing from my action, that I would not rest until I had in daylight again examined every inch of the cliffs.

Strange to say, I did not feel much worse for my night vigils, and when I awoke on the following morning my brain was clear and every faculty alert. I was arranging to carry my resolutions of the previous night into effect when Simpson placed the morning paper on the table. The next minute I had forgotten all I had intended to do.