Time was passing. One Sunday morning in November, while the vicar of St. Saviour's preached a sermon about immortality, she looked at the familiar faces of the congregation and thought sadly of the impermanence of all earthly things.

So many of the people she had known were gone; so few remained, and these each showed so plainly the havoc and the change wrought by the flying years. She glanced at the card in the metal frame that was half hidden by her prayer-books—"Mrs. Marsden, two seats." Once the writing on the card read "Mr. and Mrs. Thompson, three seats," and she had sat there with her husband and mother. Then the writing changed again—"Mrs. Thompson, two seats." How many years she and Enid had been here together!

And the other people in the pew—a man and a wife, with little children who had slowly grown into men and women; two elderly ladies; a widower and his sister—all had gone. She glanced across the side aisle at a white-haired feeble old man, and a wizened monkey-like old dame who nodded and shook unceasingly—Mr. Bennett, the High Street butcher, and his palsied helpmate;—and she thought of what they were when first she came to St. Saviour's: a hearty vigorous couple in the prime of life, the man seeming big enough to knock down one of his bullocks, and the woman singing the hymns so loudly that her neighbours could not hear the choir. Now they had dwindled and shrunk to this—nerveless arms, bloodless hues, and frozen silence.

Wherever she turned her eyes, she saw the same signs and could read the same story—bowed backs, bald heads, blue-veined hands. Everyone had grown old, everyone had grown feeble, of those who had seen her as a young bride, as a young mother. And no new faces seemed to have replaced the faces that had vanished. Fashion in recent years had leaned steadily towards the other church. Holy Trinity possessed lighted candles on its altars, embroidered copes on its priests, stringed instruments in its organ loft: it was there that all the young people went—to be thrilled with strange music, to be charmed with smart hats, to be set throbbing with irrelevant dreams of courtship and love. Only the old and the worn out had been true to quiet peaceful St. Saviour's.

She herself was absolutely faithful to the church that she had used and loved for so long. It had become her place of rest, her harbour of refuge. It was only here that she ever felt quite at peace. She knew that here she was safe for an hour at least; while the service lasted no one could molest her; no one could even speak to her: during this brief hour she belonged to herself.

She could not forget the outside world, but she resolutely tried not to think of it. Just now she had driven away a thought of Marsden. He was lying in bed; perhaps he would sleep till late afternoon; perhaps he would be lazily getting ready for his food when she returned to the house;—but she need not think of him. He would not join her here. She folded her hands, and listened to the kind old vicar as he told her of things that are incomprehensible, immutable, and everlasting.

A man had come up the side aisle, and was stupidly staring at the people in the pews. Mrs. Marsden, glancing at him inattentively, vaguely wondered why he didn't take one of the many empty seats and sit down. She knew him very well. He was a loafer of the better class; and on Sundays he regularly made his beat up and down St. Saviour's Court, picking up odd six-pences by running off to fetch cabs, bringing forgotten umbrellas, or retailing second-hand newspapers to laggards who had missed the paper-boy.

Presently he discovered Mrs. Marsden's pew, entered it, and whispered hoarsely.

"You're wanted at the house. The gentleman said you was to come at once."

Followed by this seedy messenger, she hastened from the church.

"What is it?" she asked him when they got outside.

"I dunno. The gentleman hollered to me from the door, and sent me to fetch you."

The house door stood ajar; and her husband, in his dressing-gown and slippers, was anxiously waiting for her and guarding the foot of the stairs.

"All right," he said to the loafer. "I'll remember you another time;" and he shut the door and bolted it.

From the top of the stairs there came a sound of wailing and lamentation.

"Jane, look here. I want you to stop this fool's mouth—what's her name—Susan. I've somehow upset her. And that infernal cook is encouraging her to squall the house down."

Without a word Mrs. Marsden hurried upstairs. The cook, a sour-visaged woman of thirty-five, was on the threshold of the kitchen; and Susan, the apple-cheeked housemaid, was clinging to cook's arm, and sobbing and howling.

"Emily—Susan," said Mrs. Marsden quietly, "what is all this noise and fuss about?"

"The master frightened her," said the cook, very sourly, "and she wishes to go to the police."

"The police! What nonsense! Why?"

"The master rang, and she took up his shaving water—and what happened frightened her."

"Where's father and mother?" cried Susan. "I want my mother. Take me home to tell father. Or let me go to the police station, and I'll tell them."

Marsden had followed his wife upstairs, and he showed himself at the kitchen door. At sight of him, Susan ceased talking and began to howl again.

"She's frightened to death," said the cook.

Mrs. Marsden was patting the girl's shoulder, studying her tear-stained face eagerly and intently.

"There, there," she said gently, as if reassured by all that the red cheeks and streaming eyes had told her. "I think this is a great noise about nothing at all."

"Of course it is," said Marsden, at the door.

"Don't leave me alone with him," bellowed Susan. "I won't be kep' a prisoner. I want to see my mother—and my father."

"Hush—Susan," said Mrs. Marsden, soothingly. "Compose yourself. There is no need to cry any more."

"No need to have cried at all," said Marsden.

Obviously he was afraid: he alternately blustered and cringed.

"You silly girl," he said cringingly, "what rubbish have you got into your head? I pass a few chaffing remarks—and you suddenly behave like a raving lunatic." And then he went on blusteringly. "Talk about going! It's us who ought to dismiss you for your impudence, and your disrespect."

"You did something to frighten her, sir," said the cook.

"It's a lie—a damned lie."

"If so," said the cook, with concentrated sourness, "why not let her go to the police, as she wishes?"

"No," shouted Marsden. "I can't have my servants libelling and scandalizing me. I've a public position in this town—and I won't have people sneaking out of my house to spread a lot of innuendos against their employers."

Then he beckoned his wife, and spoke to her in a whisper. "For God's sake, shut her up. Give her a present—square her. Shut her mouth somehow.... It's all right, you know—but we mustn't give her the chance of slandering me;" and he went out of the kitchen.

But he returned almost immediately, to beckon and whisper again.

"Jane. Don't let her out of your sight."

So this was her task for the remainder of the day of rest—to sit and chat with a blubbering housemaid until a pacification of nerves and mind had been achieved.

She performed the task, but found it a fatiguing one. Susan made her labours arduous by returning to the starting point every time that any progress had been made.

"I'd sooner go back 'ome at once, ma'am."

"I think that would be a pity, Susan. If you leave me like this, I may not be able to get you another place. Why should you throw up a comfortable situation?"

"It isn't comfortable."

"Susan, you shouldn't say that. Haven't I treated you kindly?"

"Yes, you have."

"And haven't I taken trouble in teaching you your duties? You are getting on very nicely; and if you stay with me a little longer, I shall be able to recommend you as competent."

But this servant said what all other servants had said to Mrs. Marsden. Susan had no fault to find with her mistress.

"I should be comfortable, if it wasn't for him. But I've never been comfortable with him."

And then she went back to her starting point.

"I'd rather go 'ome. I must ask mother's advice—and tell father too. I don't believe father would wish it 'ushed up."

However, Mrs. Marsden finally succeeded. By bedtime Susan was pacified.

"Yes, I'll stay, ma'am. I'd like to stay with you—but may I sleep in Em'ly's room?"

"Of course you may."

Next morning no one came to call Mrs. Marsden; no fires were lighted; no breakfast was being prepared. Both the servants had gone. In the night cook had persuaded the girl to change her mind.

A letter from cook, conspicuously displayed on the dining-room mantelpiece, explained matters.

"Dear Madame,—

"We are sorry to leave you but feel we cannot stay in this house. I have advised Susan to go to her Home and she has gone there.

"Yours respectfully,
"Miss Emily Howard."

Mrs. Marsden went to her husband's room, woke him, and repeated the substance of Miss Howard's note.

He was dreadful to see, in the cold morning light—unshaven, white and puffy; sitting up in bed, biting his coarse fingers, and looking at her with cowardly blood-shot eyes.

"Where is her home?"

Mrs. Marsden said that Susan's parents lived somewhere on the other side of Linkfield.

"Twelve miles away! She's gone out by train. She has got there by now. What are we to do?"

"I scarcely know."

"Let me think a minute.... Yes, look here. Get hold of old Prentice—He's a man of the world. He'll help you. He'll be able to shut them up."

And with terrified haste he gave her his directions. She was to run to Mr. Prentice's private house, and catch him before he started for his office. Then she was to run to Cartwright's garage and hire a motor-car for the day; and then she and Mr. Prentice were to go scouring out into the country, to silence Susan and all her relatives.

"Tell Prentice to take plenty of money with him. And don't forget—ask for Cartwright's open car. It's faster. And don't waste a minute—don't wait for breakfast or anything—and don't let Prentice wait either."

In an hour she and her old friend were spinning along the Linkfield road in the hired motor-car. The east wind cut their faces, dirt sprinkled their arms, gloomy thoughts filled their minds.

This, then, was her Monday's task—to begin Sunday's toil, on a larger scale, all over again.

With some difficulty they found the cottage for which they were seeking. Susan's mother opened the door in response to prolonged tappings. Susan had safely reached home.

"Oh, come inside," said the mother; and she pretended to shed tears. "Oh dear, oh dear. Who could of believed such a thing 'appening?"

"Nothing has happened," said Mr. Prentice, confidently and jovially; "except that your daughter has left her situation without warning, and we want to know what she means by it."

"Oh, she's told me everything," said the mother, dolefully shaking her head. "Everything."

"There was nothing to tell," said Mr. Prentice; "beyond the fact that she has behaved in a very stupid manner. Where is she?"

The mother indicated a door behind her. "Poor dear, she's so exhausted, I've been trying to persuade her to eat a morsel of something."

Mr. Prentice lifted a latch, opened the inner door, and disclosed the humble home-picture—Susan, with her mouth full of bacon and bread, stretching a hearty hand towards the metal tea-pot.

"Ah, thank goodness," said the mother, "she 'as bin able to pick a bit. Don't be afraid, Susan—you're 'ome now, along of your own mother and father;" and she addressed Mrs. Marsden. "'Er father 'as 'eard everything, too."

Mr. Prentice was laughing gaily.

"Well done, Susan. Don't be afraid of another slice of bacon. Don't be afraid of a fourth cup of tea."

"No, sir," said Susan shyly.

"Where is her father?" asked Mr. Prentice. "I'd like to have a few words with him."

But father, having heard his daughter's tale, had started on a long journey with an empty waggon. He would return with it full of manure any time this afternoon. And going, and loading, and returning, he would be thinking over everything, and deciding what he and Susan should next do.

Mr. Prentice, considering that even a hired motor-car ought to be able to overtake a manure waggon though empty, started in pursuit of father; and Mrs. Marsden was left to conduct the pacific negotiations at the cottage.

It was a long and weary day, full of small difficulties—father, when recovered, not a free man, unable to talk, compelled to attend to his master's business; mother unable to express any opinion without previous discussion with father; empty fruitless hours slowly dragging away; meals at a public-house; a walk with Susan;—then darkness, and father talking to Mr. Prentice in the parlour; and, finally, mother and Mrs. Marsden summoned from the kitchen to assist at ratification of peace proposals.

It was late at night when Mrs. Marsden got back to St. Saviour's Court. Her husband had not been out all day. He was sitting by the dining-room fire, with his slippered feet on the fender, and a nearly emptied whisky bottle on the corner of the table near his elbow.

"Well?" He looked round anxiously and apprehensively.

"It is over. There will be no trouble—not even a scandal."

She was blue with cold; her hands were numbed, and hung limply at her sides; her voice had become husky.

"Bravo! Well done!" He stood up, and stretched and straightened himself, as if throwing off the heavy load that had kept him crouched and bent in the armchair. "Excellent! I knew you'd do it all right;" and he drew a deep breath, and then began to chuckle. "And, by Jove, old girl, I'm grateful to you.... Look here. Have you had your grub? Don't you want some supper?"

"No."

"Well, understand—my best thanks;" and really he seemed to feel some little gratitude as well as great satisfaction. "Jane, you're a brick. You never show malice. You've a large heart."

"No," she said huskily; and with a curious slow gesture, she raised her numbed hands and pressed them against her breast. "I had a large heart once; but it has grown smaller and smaller, and harder and harder—till now it is a lump of stone."

"No, no. Rot."

"Yes. And that's lucky—or before this you would have broken it."

He stood staring at the door when it had closed behind her. Then he shrugged his shoulders, turned to the table, and replenished his glass with whisky.

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