They were being told, those plain, dull people, and by a mere boy, too, that they had brought something into the world. A heritage of strength and weakness; of good and evil, bequeathed to them by those who had gone on. From these fragments their souls must weave what is to be taken with them when Death comes. The effort, the struggle, the success or failure, will be the part that they leave behind for them who remain, or who are to come later. In words strangely adapted to his listeners, that frail boy, with glorified face, was beseeching them, as they valued their future hope, as they desired to make better the ones who must live later, to gain a victory over their heritage of weakness and sin by the God-given elements of strength and goodness, and to blaze the trail for themselves, and to leave it so free behind them that weak, stumbling feet might easier find the way. He was speaking to fathers and mothers for the sakes of their children. He was urging the two about to marry to see to it that they prepare by their own consecration, the _path on before_. A silence filled the little church. The boy, pale and exhausted, was asking Jude and Joyce to come forward. Gaston saw them go, side by side, Jude shambling as usual, Joyce stepping as if hastening to receive something long-desired. It was the briefest of services. Simple, unadorned, but dignified and solemn. Amen! It was over. Jude and Joyce were married! The people were stirring; were moving about. The sodden, familiar life was awaiting every one of them. No; something had happened in St. Ange. Gaston knew it. Filmer knew it. Peggy Falstar had hold of her little Billy's hand, and Peter followed with his little daughter Maggie drawn close to him. Leon Tate was red in the face, and Isa looked stern and thoughtful. Yes; something had happened in St. Ange. It would never be the same. Drew went outside the church and joined Filmer. He had seen the uplifted expression on Joyce's face. He had had his answer from on high; and he was strangely moved. He stood beside Filmer, motionless and flushed. Jock contemplated him from his greater height as if he were a new and startling enigma. "Say, kid," he drawled presently, striving to hide the excitement that was causing the perspiration to stand on his forehead; "what got into you?" "I reckon it was something getting out of me," Drew replied with the short cough. "I don't know as them few words you spoke are capable of holding Jude and Joyce eternally. What you think?" "If they cannot, no others could." Again the quick, harsh cough. "But that sermon!" Jock shrugged his shoulders nervously; "that's what's shook the foundations of this here town. Leaving out the fact of you being _you_, standing up there handling folks's feelings as you did, I want to know if you stand by them ideas you passed out?" "With all my mind!" "Not elocuting and acting?" "Surely not."