The madman saith he says so—It is strange!

Margaret was not brought out till she was nearly twenty.

"She was ridiculously young for her age," her aunt said; "besides, three unmarried nieces were too many, and Margaret was so unsteady that the least taste of excitement turned her head."

There was reason in all her remarks. A very little change excited Meg, as a very little champagne will excite habitual water-drinkers, and she was remarkably youthful in her enthusiasms.

Laura and Kate became engaged almost at the same time; Mr. Deane came down to the family place in Kent, and there were grand doings before the joint wedding.

Ravenshill had not been so gay since the time when Mr. Deane's young wife reigned there, and when the children pattered merrily about the passages.

Meg was always overjoyed when her father came home, and he on his side was inclined to be proud of his pretty daughter. She had developed fast, and was far prettier at twenty than when he had last seen her at sixteen. The youngest Miss Deane bid fair to rival Kate, who was the acknowledged beauty of the family.

She was a slim fair girl, with a sweet rather thin face, and eager innocent grey eyes.

Her looks were remarkably subject to moods. Her colour would come and go when she talked, and when she was with any one whom she cared for, and who took the trouble to overcome her shyness, she would light up into real brilliancy of beauty. Alone with her father she was often gay, and always intensely interested and sympathetic; with her aunt she was cold and constrained, having never overcome her childish horror of her.

During Meg's childhood the dislike was chiefly on her own side; for Mrs. Russelthorpe troubled her head very little about the whims of her youngest niece, but after she came out it was a different matter.

Meg had always been the favourite child, and during this last visit had become in some measure her father's confidante.

She caught his opinions with a thoroughness and wholesale admiration that delighted him; she brightened when he entered the room, and responded eagerly to his lightest humour.

There was no arriÈre pensÉe in her adaptability. Meg loved her father and hated her aunt, and made no secret of either feeling; but hers was not a nature to lay plots, and she would have been astonished had she guessed how often her aunt had said bitterly of late that "Margaret was cleverer than people fancied, and knew how to get round poor Charles".

Mrs. Russelthorpe and her youngest niece walked into Dover one day to return a call.

Mrs. Russelthorpe was determined that neither her own conscience nor the world should accuse her of neglecting her duty; and, now that Meg was fairly grown-up, she chaperoned her everywhere, with at least as much vigour as she had expended on Laura and Kate.

Meg, like her father, had a natural turn for society, but her aunt's criticisms made her nervous, and she was apt to be both shy and absent.

Some few people had been attracted by the rather pathetic charm that the girl possessed; but, as a rule, nothing but monosyllables could be got out of her in her aunt's presence, and she was generally accounted "disappointing".

The July sun was blazing as the two ladies walked along the white Dover road.

They were offered red and white wine when they reached their destination; and either that or the hot room made Meg giddy.

Her aunt cried sharply: "Margaret, are you quite moonstruck?" And then Meg "jumped" violently, and spilt her wine on the carpet.

"You want a breath of the sea to freshen you up, my dear," said her hostess kindly. "Run outside, and sit on the beach for a bit."

"Oh, thank you," cried Meg; and lifted her soft eyes, with the sudden sweet smile that always won old ladies hearts, and rather irritated her aunt.

"I am so sorry I spilt your wine, I generally am stupid. I think you had better get rid of me, and I should like to sit by the sea;" and she ran downstairs before Mrs. Russelthorpe could raise an objection.

A fresh wind crisped the surface of the water, so that it was covered with curly white flecks, and it was hard to tell which was bluest, sea or sky. Meg's eyes ached with sunshine; but it refreshed and exhilarated her, and so did the salt breeze that tossed against her cheek.

The beach was crowded with nursery-maids and children, niggers and Punches, and men selling indigestible gooseberries, and women with false lace.

Meg bought some of the last—the hungry-looking vendor making her feel sad, even after she had paid an exorbitant price for the purchase.

"Blessing on you, my lady, and may you never know a want, and live in sunshine all your days, and tread on nothing but velvet with your pretty feet, and have your hands always full of gold!" cried the beggar. But somehow the blessing sounded to Meg like a curse, and the envious hunger in the tramp's eyes made her shudder. "I hope some one else will give you more—it is all I have with me," she said gently, and stood looking after her protÉgÉe as she trudged off.

The woman was less lucky in her next appeal. The "'Arries" whom she persecuted were inclined to chaff her, whereupon she responded with a volley of abuse. Meg blushed and got up to move away, when her attention was arrested by a man who had joined the group, and laid his hand on the tramp's arm.

"I have a message for you," he said, "from the Lord, who has heard your words and is grieving for you; and for you," turning to the men, "from the Master, whose wrath is upon those who jeer at the unfortunate!"

"He is a looney straight from Bedlam!" said one of the men.

"I am not mad," said the stranger simply; and across Meg's mind flashed St. Paul's answer, "I am not mad, most noble Festus!"

This man reminded her of an apostle, but not of St. Paul—rather, perhaps, of St. Peter.

There was an unmistakably "out-of-door" look about him, and he walked with an even springy tread, like one to whom exercise is a joy.

He was about thirty years of age, burnt with sun and air. His deep set blue eyes had an intent expression in them, his mouth was partly hidden by his curly fair beard.

He clasped his hands, holding them straight in front of him, the sinews of his wrists standing out like cord. A few idlers lounged within hearing, ready for any free entertainment, religious or otherwise.

Margaret stood still and listened. He spoke at first jerkily, with long pauses between each sentence, and with an anxious strained look in his eyes as if he were waiting for inspiration.

"The Lord has sent me to speak to you. His hand leads me—from one place to another—to call the souls He died for to Him. I am unworthy, I cannot speak as I would—my words halt."

"Cheer up, old man," called out a dissipated youth irreverently; and the crowd giggled. Meg, standing on the outskirts, felt a pang of pity; she had a painful sympathy with any one who was laughed at, but apparently the touch of mockery inspired rather than depressed him. He fixed his blue eyes suddenly on the youth, who reddened and slunk back. "Ay, ay—it's to you the Lord is calling," he cried. "Speak, Lord! Speak through my lips that this soul may hear! He is crying aloud—turn—turn from the path of destruction. He stands in the way to stop you! His arms are spread out wide—His feet are bleeding. The pain of the nails crushing through them was sweeter to Him than the smoothness of the Courts of Heaven. Among His many mansions His soul is still in pain for the children created of His Father. He rests not day or night till He has drawn them to Him. Behold the hunger for souls is upon me—even upon me—and what I feel is His Spirit moving in me. Come—ye who are weary. He had not where to lay His head. Come—ye who weep—for the Man of Sorrows has tasted the cup of bitterness and He only can comfort. Come—ye who have sinned. He fought wi' that devil, and conquered him. Lord, Thou art standing by my side now, as Thou didst stand on the shores of Galilee; but this people's eyes are holden that they cannot see Thee. Yet let us kneel before Thee, for Thou art here!"

He flung himself on his knees as he spoke, and looked up as if his eyes indeed beheld the "Son of Man" in their midst.

"Kneel! Kneel!" he cried imperatively; and swayed by his intense belief, his strong personal magnetism, his hearers knelt.

In the dead silence that followed, Meg's heart was beating wildly, she alone did not kneel; perhaps her education made any display of religious emotion more repugnant to her than to the rest of his audience; but her knees were shaking under her, and she turned white with the intensity of the awe with which she realised the presence of God.

"Lord, we kneel to Thee. We acknowledge Thee our God. We will follow Thee in all things, counting riches as nought, and throwing aside the pleasures of this world. Thou who wast poor among men, and travel-stained and weary, shall be from henceforth our King and Pattern," he cried, still looking up as if making a vow to One whom his bodily eyes beheld. Then suddenly his glance fell on Meg.

"There is one here who does not kneel to Thee yet," he cried. "Oh, my God, touch her, melt her! The daughters of Jerusalem followed Thee weeping. Mary wept at Thy cross. Wilt Thou not draw her too? this woman, who longs to come to Thee, but fears——" Then, with a ring of triumph in his tone, as if an answer had been vouchsafed to him:—

"He calls you!" he cried. "You have chosen for Him! Kneel!—kneel! Pour out your soul in thanksgiving!" And Meg, sobbing, fell on her knees.

She heard little of the oration which followed; she did not know that a man behind her was groaning over his sins; that two girls had been persuaded to take the pledge; that one tipsy old woman was proclaiming, somewhat pharisaically, that "she'd been converted fourteen years ago, and 'adn't no call to be 'saved' fresh now."

The preacher's voice and the splash of the waves on the shingle sounded far away and indistinct.

Always she had longed for a personal revelation of the Christ; and now it came to her.

As she had never realised before she realised now the "travel-stained" Son of the Father, whose mighty love had made the joys of Heaven pain till the lost were found. Ah, well! Since the day of Pentecost, and before, it is through man's voice that that revelation has come, and through men who have been baptised with a fiery baptism.

Presently they began to sing; and some one officiously touched her shoulder, and said, "Ain't you a-goin' to join, miss?" And she stood up, feeling as if dazed by a sudden fall.

Her overwrought nerves were jarred.

The claptrappy tune, the overdone emphasis, the vulgar intonation distressed her; she was ashamed of the feeling, but could not help it; she turned to walk away. The preacher paused in the middle of a line.

"You have put your hand to the plough; you will not turn back!" he cried pleadingly. The public appeal annoyed her for a second, but when she met his eyes, bright with an earnest desire to "save her soul," her anger died.

"I hope not," she said gently; and walked away with his fervent "God help you!" ringing in her ears.