Since the night on which poor Morris Pugh had sought in vain for God's Providence upon the mountain-top, he had not left his room; for rheumatic fever--that curse of Wales--had laid hold of him.

The mental shock also militated against recovery. It would be almost impossible to overestimate what that shock had been, surcharged as he was by religious exaltation. He had been dashed from high heaven to earth, and at first he lay stunned, absolutely maimed. Then, as feeling returned to his numb mind, the desire to slip away and so avoid the necessity for thought was the despair of his mother, who had come from the lonely hill-farm, where she still was mistress, to be his devoted nurse. She was a woman of the true saintly type, full to the brim of sympathies and sentimentalities; as such, not one to be burdened with the reality of doubt.

By degrees, however, chaos became order. The fiat, "Let there be light," went forth, and Morris Pugh, enthusiast by nature, began to creep towards it. What although the so-called miracles in which he and many others had believed were unreal, that could not be said of the effects of the revival. They were everywhere manifest, abundantly real. Thousands hitherto spiritually blind were now with open eyes following the straight and narrow way. Oh! there was proof enough to show what Power was at work. As the Reverend Hwfa Williams had said (he found such small jests no inconsiderable aid in his rough and ready missioning), there was proof enough for every Thomas in Wales.

And there was more work to be done; so what mattered it whether he, Morris Pugh, the man to do it, rose or did not rise to the height of sublime folly which had been his once? There was work to be done and he must do it. So on the last day of the old year, after a week's change at Aberystwith, he returned, eager for the big revival meeting which was to see the New Year in. It was to be a great occasion, for Merv, Gwen, and Alicia Edwards were back for a Christmas holiday from their arduous labour abroad. Their presence in the little village must surely awaken the few sleepers that remained; these would be gathered in, their names added to the already long list of the elect. Even Myfanwy Jones who, as usual, had come down for a long week-end laden with bandboxes, might follow the example of her father and come into the ranks of the saved.

That would be great gain, for though Myfanwy, being well-to-do, might dress as she pleased, the influence of that dress was not benign on poorer girls. And there were so many points besides drunkenness and open immorality which the undoubted increase of faith did not seem to touch. David Morgan had sold his mare at Wrexham for five-and-twenty pounds. An open market truly, and it was a good-looking beast, for all that it had the staggers. Then the hole in the hedge, through which Evan Rees' sheep were in the habit of pushing their way to graze on a water-meadow belonging to an absentee proprietor, was still unmended.

There were, in fact, many things which to Morris Pugh's sobered sight seemed ill advised, while some, such as the midnight meetings held by mere lads and lassies, could not be defended.

All these things must be combated. But on this eve of a new step towards Eternity (that quaint Eternity which apparently has not yet begun for the religious) the work must be to rouse every dead soul to life.

The chapel was packed from floor to ceiling. Taken simply as a sight, it was marvellous to think of the sordid lives lived from year to year, begun, continued, and ended in the cult of the ultimate sixpence (by which alone the struggle for existence could be maintained) that many of those present were leading; here, before the Lord, they were at least seeking a higher sanction.

And yet----

Morris Pugh's whole heart and soul went out in one vivid prayer for true guidance.

Gwen, on the platform, was looking dreadfully ill. She was wasted to a skeleton, her fever-bright eyes seemed larger than ever, but they were steadier, and her voice was even sweeter, despite the hollow hacking cough which assailed her at all times, save when she was singing.

Those same eyes of hers had learned the trick of fastening themselves on one face; but so had the eyes of all these practised missioners, and even Abel Parry, who was taking Hwfa Williams' part as bass, looked out steadily, earnestly.

Myfanwy Jones felt the thrill of this, though she was conscious that much of her physical sense of strain arose from the presence of Mervyn Pugh.

How very handsome he was, and what a gentleman he looked after his three months of touring about the country!

In truth he had changed. He was finer, more complex; for it had been impossible to lead the old simple village life in the hotels and boarding-houses where he had lodged. He was different in every way, and in becoming different he had almost forgotten his past self. Even the mental emotion of his first association with Gwen in this work of salvation had passed; he took it now as a matter of course. For the rest, seeing his way clear, and urged thereto by those who had heard him speak, he had almost made up his mind to the ministry.

Yet not quite so; and the sight of Myfanwy Jones robed in black samite, mystic, wonderful, in the very first row, roused recollections, almost regrets.

For there had been no harm in their holiday junketing at Blackborough; they had only enjoyed themselves immensely.

A sense of something electrical in the air disturbed him from recollections of a man in a music hall, who had ventured to comment on his companion's beauty, and he became conscious that Gwen and Alicia Edwards were both looking at him. There was a whole world of difference in the meaning of these looks, but Mervyn lumped them together as a control to his wandering thoughts.

He need not have felt that sudden sense of guilt so far as poor Gwen was concerned. Her limited mind had long since relegated the stormy past to the Devil. She shuddered at the thought of it, as she shuddered at the thought of Him.

But Mervyn was a soul which, mysteriously, she had saved.

In a measure this was true. All unknown to herself, she was largely responsible for the outburst of spiritual energy around her. There was that in her which, given freely as she gave it, without measure and without stint, was bound to force response. And to-night, wearied utterly, yet elated, singing against the doctor's orders, racked by a terrible pain when she drew her breath, she was at the flood-tide of her potentiality; and she knew it.

Beside this--the joy and rapture of the stigmatic--Alicia Edwards' jealousy of Myfanwy was trivial indeed. But though much that was trivial lingered in the minds of many in the chapel, there was a deadly earnestness in most of the faces which looked up to the missioners, almost as they might have looked at a veritable transfiguration of their Lord.

The toilworn, the smug, the rugged, the sensuous, the clever, on all these lay a supreme desire, yet a supreme content. Briefly, they had what they wanted, yet they wanted something more. What?

An analysis of the minds of most would, no doubt, have yielded a large percentage of purely personal sense of salvation, but there was more than that in the whole atmosphere of the little chapel as Morris Pugh stood up to give his first address since his vigil upon the mountain. What it was, who can say? Call it the Spirit of God, call it anything you please, all explanations resolve themselves into a still further away, "What is it?"

Now, all those days and nights of mental and physical torture through which Morris Pugh had passed, had left their unfailing mark on him. Before he could even creep back into the old straight way, it had been necessary for him to acknowledge that he had been at fault in seeking to dictate to the Greater Wisdom, in looking for a sign, when no sign would be given. It had been a bitter struggle for him to lay down these, his highest hopes, but he had laid them down, and he stood before his people humbled, patient, almost wistful.

But they were not attuned to this mood; so as he spoke, the electricity--the something--in the air failed, and silence passed to faint shiftings, to louder shufflings. Practised speaker as he was, he realised at once that he was not, as usual, holding his audience. With an almost convulsive inward prayer for guidance, he modulated his voice into the bardic "hwl," that marvellous maker of emotion amongst the Welsh.

A cough? Yes! a distinct cough! followed by another and another!

Mervyn looked anxiously at his brother. This would never do! Experience told him that the unknown force on which the professional missioner relies was oozing away, so without more ado, he gave the signal to Gwen, and straightway a hymn, softly, persuasively, sung in the perfect harmony of four exquisite voices, arrested the wavering attention of the crowded chapel.

Emotionally musical to the n'th degree, the audience needed no more. In an instant the atmosphere changed and, as Morris Pugh resumed his seat, the waves of sweet sound seemed to stun him with a sense of failure.

Verse after verse, those waves grew to almost tumultuous chorus, seeming to monopolise with their vibration even the small amount of stifling air left to each pair of human lungs. So through that human chorus, half-drowned by the glad summons to Eternity, came the passing of Time as the church clock struck--

Twelve!!

The sound stilled the singing for a second, and Mervyn, a genius in emotion, seized on the propitious moment.

"Let us pray!" he cried, falling on his knees, "let us pray for our brothers and sisters who are still in bondage!"

Without an instant's hesitation the congregation of the elect followed suit, leaving the few standing, uncertain. Amongst them, Myfanwy Jones. Her face showed a sudden fear, not unmixed with resentment; but Mervyn had leapt from the platform and was beside her, his face brilliant, ere she could decide on either.

"Do not go!" he whispered passionately. "Listen! The door is open--we wait for you! we want you, Myfanwy!"

The girl turned to him. A faint tremor showed in her full, lithe figure; her lip trembled. Another moment and she would have given way, but that moment brought another factor to the equation of assent.

"Yes! We want you, Myfanwy! We wait for you!"

It was a girl's voice, and Myfanwy flashed round on it superbly self-possessed. "Thank you much, Alicia Edwards," she said in clear tones, "but there is no need for you to wait at all. I am going!"

And go she did, with her head held high, a sphinxlike calm of malice in her face, the frou-frou of her silken skirts heard above the sudden silence which fell upon the chapel.

It had needed but this example to make other hesitants follow. The congregation, taken aback, looked for guidance and got it from Gwen.

"I will not let thee go!" she chanted in still clearer, higher tones as she threw out her hands to those retreating souls. "Yea, I will not let thee go, except thou bless me. Where thou goest I will go. Thy God shall be my God! Follow! Follow!"

The cry was caught up readily, as all her cries were, when as now, her nervous equilibrium was disturbed. So on the heels of the retreating few, the many swept out into the chill, frost-bound moonlit night.

The utter peace of it, its cold indifference, disturbed by no questionings, struck like a knife to Morris Pugh's heart as he followed also, uncertain whether to accompany his flock on their midnight visitations, or go home to pray in secret for the salvation of sinners.

He chose the latter, and as he closed the door of his room the rousing chorus of a revival hymn echoed out under the stars of heaven, making him think sadly, how far away these were, for all their brightness.

They seemed so also to Aura, who at that moment--looking as if she might have stood as illustration to Keats' "St. Agnes' Eve"--was standing at her window in the moonlight. Four days had passed since her grandfather's sudden fainting fit, and he was quite himself again. He had even been able to see Mr. Hirsch, who had called in his motor; and Peter Ramsay, after delaying his departure a day or two, had left. There was nothing more to be feared for the present; and for the future, a peaceful, unemotional life was all that was required. So well, in fact, was he that Ted had obeyed an urgent summons from Mr. Hirsch, and, much against his will on this last night of the Old Year, had gone over to him at Aberafon. It was a bore, he felt; and yet the last few days of closer companionship with Aura, of her natural inevitable reliance on him, had made him leave her with a lighter heart.

"You will be sure and come home to-morrow," she had said, and the word "home" had brought a great tenderness in his reply, "Of course, I shall be sure."

She felt glad of the assurance as she stood there looking out on the hill-side, where everything in the midnight moonlight seemed as if carven out of stone; for her grandfather had been captious that evening, absolutely refusing to give up his annual habit of sitting up to see the New Year in. And he had been annoyed at Parkinson, the parlour-maid's, failure to appear, when, as the clock struck twelve, the personnel of the establishment were expected to wish and be wished long life and prosperity.

"Gone to a revival meeting," he had echoed querulously, "a singularly inadequate excuse! She might have read her Bible at home; but I will speak to her tomorrow."

To which Martha had replied austerely, "It ain't no good speaken', sir; I've spoke till I'm dumb. And it ain't her Bible she's wantin', but 'er best 'at; for she's that frivolous at forty in the dry, as beats me wot she must 'a bin' in the green. An' Bate 'ud a' gone too--oh yes! yer wu'd Bate, so it ain't no good speakin'--only I told 'im plain. 'Bate,' says I, 'you know as you're a deal too light-'earted to go cadgin' about with a 'orse and cart when there's liquor 'andy, an' that ain't in it for temptation with a midnight meetin' with the likes o' her for company, as makes me sick to cook for 'em. An' what is the shine in them hot stuffy revivals beats me. I wouldn't go to one of 'em. No! Not if I was 'anged for it. I'd just say to the cart, Drive on!'"

The dramatic finale had made Aura laugh. She smiled at the remembrance of it now; but then she smiled at the remembrance of many things in the last four days.

How kind the world had been to her!

A faint clatter in the back premises made her smile again. Martha must be waiting up till the light had gone from her room in order to play that ridiculous game with stockings on which Ned had insisted on this New Year's Day, which was her birthday also.

Oh! How kind they had all been. She could not spare one of them.

She blew out the light, and the pulsing of the stars seemed to find an echo in the pulsing of her heart. Suddenly she leant out to stretch her warm young hands into the frosty air, over the flower graves in the garden, over the whole wide glistening world.

"A Happy New Year to you all, dear people," she whispered. "Such a Happy New Year!"

Five minutes after, having smiled drowsily at the sound of Martha's stealthy footsteps outside her door, she was asleep, to wake again, however, as the birds wake in winter, long before the lingering dawn.

The moon was hanging like a silver shield before the window and sent a flood of light into the room, but far away in the east on the edge of the hill there was just that faint paling of the sky which tells that when the sun rises it will rise there.

Dawn or no dawn she was broad awake, and the next instant stood by her open door.

There was the stocking, crammed full, as Ned had threatened, with chocolate creams, and a pile of parcels on the floor. She picked them up, and putting them in the warm nest she had just left, began to undo them by the light of the moon. What had they given her, these kind people?

A white chiffon motor veil! That must be from Mrs. Tressilian, who had raised an outcry against a scarf of Mechlin being used to such shallow purpose. A silver ring tray, set round with every conceivable coin of the realm! She did not need the card slipped into the red morocco case to tell her this was from Mr. Hirsch. A book--her heart gave an answering throb to the starshine--was from Ted. He had promised her a Shelley. And this, what was it? It must be the semi-surgical instrument for pruning roses, of which Dr. Ramsay had told her.

And that was all, for neither Martha nor her grandfather would give in to stockings.

Yes, it was all. Another half-ashamed feel over the darkling floor of the passage assured her of this, and she turned to the Shelley. Even if Ned had considered the chocolate creams sufficient, she had this. Now she could read the context to the lines which Ned--yes! it was Ned--had quoted:

It was lighter at the window, she passed to it, and leaning the heavy volume on the sill, knelt down to search for the "Adonais."

But she turned no pages. For there, outside on the window-ledge, broad-faced, clear, open-eyed, an iris alata stared up at her from its carpet of saxifrage.

"The most beautiful thing!"

Yes! that was it--and he had given it to her ...

The poetry which another man had written slipped to the floor unheeded. She was absorbed in what this man had brought her.

She knelt quite still for a time, her hands slightly clasped, feeling dazed at something in herself which responded--which gave back--what?

What was the over-mastering desire to crush the unconscious flower to death with her kisses.

She rose suddenly and began with haste to dress herself. She must climb the mountain-tops, as she so often did in the dawn light, and find some answer.

As she slipped silently through the house, she paused once or twice wondering if she heard something. No! her grandfather's room was quite quiet; but once in the hall the sound became indubitable.

Some one was singing outside. Singing softly it is true, but still singing. The village children, no doubt; but they must be stopped--they must not disturb her grandfather.

The next instant she stood looking with amazed anger at a group of five people who, kneeling on the ground, were singing under their breath some wild Welsh hymn which rose and fell plaintively, persistently. One of these figures she recognised. It was the parlour-maid, Parkinson; this must, therefore, be the tail-end of the revival meeting, for she had heard that such visitations were not uncommon.

"Parkinson!" she called severely, her young blood in arms at the intrusion. "What are you doing there? Get up at once and go into the house."

Parkinson, whose prim face was blurred with tears, whose hat was awry, whose whole appearance betokened a stormy night of emotion, made a protest that this was an appointed time.

"Yes!" retorted Aura, with a swift stamp of her foot, "the appointed time for doing your work! Go! and clean the silver--it wants it--you foolish woman--go!"

The foolish woman rose and sneaked away, leaving Aura to face the remaining enthusiasts who had combined the seeing of the new convert home with the singing of a hymn at this stronghold of the Devil.

Until he felt Aura's clear eyes upon him, Mervyn Pugh had not remembered the possibility of recognition. It may be, indeed, that he scarcely knew who the girl was whom he had once mistaken for Gwen. But now at her first glance he knew all too well.

"So it is you!" she said slowly, as he rose, and feeling that his best chance lay in boldness, faced her. "Why--why have you dared to come here?"

"To plead--to pray for you," he began, but was stopped by the fire, the scorn of her.

"You dare to pray for me--you--you coward! Yes! I called it you once. I call you it again. Coward! And you too, Gwen," she continued, for warned by something in the youthful accusing voice, Mervyn's fellow in the past had risen also, and with large fever-bright eyes was eagerly scanning their faces in the hope of understanding what her limited knowledge of English did not allow her to follow. Then suddenly the sight of the poor wasted body, the recognition of the poor distraught soul, overbore Aura's anger, and she stretched out her hands passionately, "Oh, Gwen! Gwen, my dear," she cried, "Go home and forget all this. Go home and lay flowers on your dead child's grave, and think of it and pray that he, its father, may be forgiven his cowardice."

A little startled cry came from Alicia Edwards. Abel Parry sang on ignorant of English.

Gwen looked at Aura, then at Mervyn, giving to each the same slow patient smile of forgetful forgiveness.

And then in that high piercingly sweet voice of hers, she began in its Welsh version the hymn which had heralded her spiritual mission:

She paused, arrested by a little soft cough. Then with a strange look in her wide wistful eyes she sank to her knees and stretched out her hands blindly, "Merve--Merve--fach--Merve anwl y----" The rest was lost in the gurgle of the blood which poured from her mouth.

Aura was beside her in a moment. "Don't raise her--her head on my knee so--Call Martha--you, man--don't stand gaping--And you, woman, unfasten her dress--that is better."

It seemed an interminable time, though Martha was already up and dressed, ere Aura saw her running from the back; and all that time, the stain on Aura's white dress grew larger and larger.

"Lord sakes," muttered Martha. "A blood vessel! This comes of making free and she not fit--Parkinson"--for the parlour-maid had followed--"you run for your turpentine, without the bees'-wax, there's a dear--you sit as you be Miss H'Aura, and you there, what's your name, them icicles. We must stop it--if we can."

There was an ominous ring in the last words, and it was not long ere Aura's face blanched almost as white as the one upon her lap, as she realized that if the life blood was slacking, it was because the tide of life itself was ebbing.

This was death. She had never stood close to it before. Her young eyes looked fearfully through the hush of life to the unknown.

So the minutes sped. Alicia Edwards gave a sigh of satisfaction, for the bleeding had ceased, but Aura, feeling the faint death tremor which re-unites the vibration of life to the vibration of the star-shine, looked up, her fear gone in grave wonder.

"I think," she said softly, "she is dead."

"Go you into the house, my darlin', an' change that there poor dress, I'll manage now," choked Martha, ever ready with her tears.

Aura looked down with a faint shiver at the crimson stain. So that was the end of love.