When I pray for strength Thou givest a great hunger and a sinking into
the depths. And then in Thy loving kindness Thou givest Thy body and
blood--for my comfort."

The room grew darker. The fire flickered and spurted as the salt dried
out of the driftwood and burnt in blue tongues of flame. Marcella
shivered, listening to the distant beat of the sea. The house was very
silent, with that dead silence that falls on houses where many of the
rooms are unfurnished. The stir and clamour of the beasts outside had
gone forever. Outside now was only one old cow, kept to give milk for
Andrew. The barren fields lay untended, for Duncan went to the fishing
to bring a little handful of coins to the master he feared and loved,
and Jean went softly about the kitchen in the shadows.

Suddenly Andrew spoke, and Marcella started, drawing a little nearer to
him.

"Do ye mind, Marcella, when we read yon books from Edinburgh--and you
used to be such an idiot, and make me so mad?"

"I mind it," she nodded, thinking painfully of those hard books.

"There was something in one of them that I seized on with a bitter
scorn. It was explaining how the idea of the sacrament of the Body and
Blood of Christ had grown up. It said how savages, when they saw one of
the tribe better than themselves, would kill him and eat him to make
themselves as good as he. I liked that fine, Marcella. I was bitter in
those days."

"Horrible!" said Marcella with a shiver. "I like to think of the Last