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!!