And John, watching Anne's fair figure moving to and fro among the
stricken and the mourning; watching her fair, fluttering hands, busy
with their holy work, her deep, soul-haunting eyes, changeful with
the light and shade of tenderness; listening to her sweet, clear
voice, laughing with the joyous, comforting the comfortless, gently
commanding, softly pleading, finds creeping into his brain strange
new thoughts concerning women--concerning this one woman in
particular.

One day, rummaging over an old chest, he comes across a coloured
picture-book of Bible stories. He turns the torn pages fondly,
remembering the Sunday afternoons of long ago. At one picture,
wherein are represented many angels, he pauses; for in one of the
younger angels of the group--one not quite so severe of feature as
her sisters--he fancies he can trace resemblance to Anne. He lingers
long over it. Suddenly there rushes through his brain the thought,
How good to stoop and kiss the sweet feet of such a woman! and,
thinking it, he blushes like a boy.

So from the soil of human suffering spring the flowers of human love
and joy, and from the flowers there fall the seeds of infinite pity
for human pain, God shaping all things to His ends.

Thinking of Anne, John's face grows gentler, his hand kinder;
dreaming of him, her heart grows stronger, deeper, fuller. Every
available room in the warehouse has been turned into a ward, and the
little hospital is open free to all, for John and Anne feel that the
whole world are their people. The piled-up casks are gone--shipped
to Woolwich and Gravesend, bundled anywhere out of the way, as though
oil and tallow and the gold they can be stirred into were matters of