She flung him a look out of her hard, defiant eyes; she made no answer. A child, clinging to her mother's hand, looked up as she went by, pity and fear in her great wondering eyes. "Mother, see that poor woman; she's hungry or cold!" The little one put her hand over the slip, pulling at Meg's cloak, "What's the matter with you? Why don't you go home?" "Bertha, child, are you crazy?" Her mother caught her quickly away. "Don't touch that woman!" Meg heard it. Standing, a moment after, just at the edge of the aisle, a lady, clad in velvet, brushed against her, then gathered her costly garments with a hand ringed and dazzling with diamonds, shrinking as if she had touched some accursed thing, and sweeping by. Meg's eyes froze at that. This was the sanctuary, these the worshippers of Him who was bruised. His message could not be for her. It would be of no use to find out about him; of no use to tell him how she loathed herself and her life; that she wanted to know about that Rest, and about that heavy-laden one. His followers would not brook the very flutter of her dress against their pure garments. They were like him; he could have nothing to say to such as she. She turned to go out. Through the open door she saw the night and the storm. Within was the silent dome, and the organ-hymn still swelling up to it. It was still of the wounded that they sang. Meg listened, lingered, touched the preacher on the arm as he came by. "I want to ask you a question." He started at the sight of her, or more perhaps at the sharpness in her voice. "Why, why, who are you?" "I'm Meg. You don't know me. I ain't fit for your fine Christian people to touch; they won't let their little children speak to me." "Well?" he said, nervously, for she paused. "Well? You're a preacher. I want to know about Him they've been singing of, I came in to hear the singing. I like it." "I--I don't quite understand you," began the minister. "You surely have heard of Jesus Christ." "Yes," her eyes softened, "somebody used to tell me; it was mother; we lived in the country. I wasn't what I am now. I want to know if he can put me back again. What if I should tell him I was going to be different? Would he hear me, do you suppose?" Somehow the preacher's scholarly self-possession failed him. He felt ill at ease, standing there with the woman's fixed black eyes upon him. "Why, yes; he always forgives a repentant sinner." "Repentant sinner." She repeated the words musingly. "I don't understand all these things. I've forgotten most all about it. I want to know. Couldn't I come in some way with the children and be learnt 'em? I wouldn't make any trouble." There was something almost like a child in her voice just then, almost as earnest and as pure. The preacher took out his handkerchief and wiped his face; then he changed his hat awkwardly from hand to hand.