But she had never before felt it as she did to-night, looking up at that exquisite clear sky with the sickle moon rising. She was not well, tired with the walk and the service; and a most unwonted pressure of tears ached behind her eyes, though she fiercely fought against them. "Ethel!" said Mrs. Bradford. "What are you standing there for? Why don't you go and take off your things for supper?" "I am going." Miss Ethel controlled her voice to speak as usual. "I'll just put the kettle on first, because Caroline won't be in for some time yet." And she began to cross the room, when suddenly, abruptly, she stopped short. Standing quite still in the midst of all those heavy chairs and tables that gleamed dimly in the falling dusk, she blurted out in a queer, strangled tone: "I hated that sermon. I don't think clergymen ought to be allowed to preach like that. They want to change God. They can't even leave God the same." "You really do upset yourself about things so, Ethel," said Mrs. Bradford fretfully. She wanted her supper. "What does it matter to you what other people think? You should just take no notice and go on in your own way, and believe what you always have believed--as I do." Miss Ethel made some inarticulate reply, and went out to put on the kettle. Not for any earthly consideration would she have told her sister that that was exactly what she could not do: that because she listened carefully to sermons and read articles about religion the unchanging God was gradually giving place to a vague Power which nebulously adapted itself to the needs of a changing civilization. The gas-ring spurted under the match in her hand, lighting up with a bluish light her pale, thin face. Her lips moved as she murmured to herself for comfort: "The _same_ yesterday, to-day and for ever." But she could not find anything to hold on to in that any more. Then she heard an unexpected sound at the door, and the next minute Caroline came in, drawing off her gloves. "I'll see to the hot water, Miss Ethel," she said. "You are in early to-night," said Miss Ethel. "Yes." Caroline paused. "Oh, I have been going to tell you that I shall----" But with the words nearly over her lips, she found herself unable to speak them. "Shall be late in to-morrow," she substituted; for somehow she could not after all cut herself adrift from this house yet, though she came fresh from a conversation which had left her burning with annoyance. She tingled still at the recollection of one girl saying to another in passing: "That's Caroline Raby! What's she doing? Oh, she's in service." And at the memory of her own sharply-flung: "I'm not in service, then! I take tickets on the promenade and I'm going into an office after that."