But now, sitting up in bed, there came to her one of those terrible convictions, never to be misplaced, that are in themselves the sheerest madness or the sheerest sanity, that she must get her tongue untied. And the Serpent, being the strongest of all powers on Lucifram, was the likeliest to do it. Next afternoon at five o’clock saw Rosalie kneeling in the famous temple, her head buried in her hands, praying in the silence as only sincerity and helplessness can pray. “Oh, Serpent, give me my tongue! Let me talk,” said she, a most natural request when coming from a woman. Then she went home quite comforted, as only the simple can be. “One does not pray for nothing,” she thought “I feel the Serpent heard me.” And that night she was so happy, she did not notice her uncle’s troubled look and silent way. She did not mean to be selfish, she was thinking purely of her prayer. Some weeks went by, and every day she walked to the temple and prayed: “Oh, Serpent, give me my tongue! Let me talk.” But no answer came to her prayer, and at last she got tired of kneeling down among the empty pews. The building was so big that she felt quite far away, so she picked up her courage and went up the big aisle, right up through the choir stalls to the steps rising towards the altar, hidden by the curtains. It was legitimate for any woman to go so far. She was perfectly within her right. So she went up the steps and knelt down quietly beside the golden railing. And there she prayed to the unseen Serpent—prayed, and believed it heard her. Then she went home. How near she had been to that Unseen Power! How fervently she had prayed! The Serpent always answered prayer, always looked after the helpless. On going home her ring at the door was answered by a neighbour with a white face and swollen eyes. What was the matter? An hour ago, soon after she went out, her uncle had been brought home after a stroke. Since then he had died, just after the arrival of the doctor. Rosalie sank back against the lobby wall, her hands by her sides, her eyes filled with horror. “Your aunt is upstairs in the back bedroom,” said the neighbour, who had told the story as quietly as she could, as gently as its tragedy allowed. Rosalie pulled herself together and went upstairs, trying the bedroom door at the back. It opened, and she was thankful. Her aunt sat in a chair, her head buried in the pillow of the one spare bed. Rosalie went to her and touched her shoulder. The elder woman moved slowly, and then sat up, smoothing her grey hair. “I’ve been here long enough,” she said dully. “I must go and see to things. Sit here, Rosalie. It isn’t for you to be about.” Her dull grief repelled all sad advances. From the time that Rosalie found her lying there cramped against the bed she showed no further signs of weakness, no further signs of giving in, till the funeral was over.