The feast of Christmas was over. Throughout the world the festival had fallen chill and cold on the hearts of mankind. The _Adeste Fideles_ had summoned few to worship, and the praise had sounded thin and hollow. Even the faithful must keep their deep conviction as a hidden fire within them amid the din and crash of faith and the rising tides of negation and despair. Gortre, Helena, and Mr. Byars stood together by the train side. They spoke but little; the same thought was in their brains. The jarring materialism of the scene, its steady, heedless industry, seemed an outrage almost in its cold disregard of the sadness which they felt themselves. The great engines glided in and out of the station, the porters and travellers moved with busy cheerfulness as if the world were not in the grip of a great darkness and horror, taking no account of it. They stood by the door of the carriage Basil had chosen, a forlorn group not quite able to realise the stir of life around them. Gortre was pale and worn, but visibly better and stronger. His face was fixed and resolute. The vicar seemed much older, shrunken somewhat, and his manner was more tremulous than before. His arm was in Helena's. "Basil," said the vicar, "you are going from us into what must be the unknown--God grant a happy issue out of the perils and difficulties before you. For my part, I seem to be in an unhappy and doubting state. It may be that you have the key to this black mystery and can dispel the clouds. I shall pray daily that it may be so. It is in the hands of God." He sighed heavily as he gripped Basil's hand in farewell. In truth, he had but little hope and had hardly been able to realise the young man's story. It was almost inconceivable to him, the abnormal wickedness it suggested, the possibility that this great cloud could come upon the world at the action of two men, both of whom he had known, found pleasant, cultured people, and rather liked. The thought was too big to grasp, it confused and stunned him. It is a curious fact that this good man, who could believe, despite all contrary evidence, in the eternal truths of the Gospel, could not believe in the malignancy which Basil's story had seemed to indicate. Helena had not been told of Basil's suspicions, only of his hopes. She knew that there was that in his mind which might lead once more to light and disperse the clouds. No details were given to her, nor did she ask for them. She was too serene and fine for commonplace curiosity. The mutual trust between the lovers was absolute. Nothing could strain it, nothing could disturb it; and in her love and admiration for Basil, Helena saw nothing incongruous or incredible in the fact that the young man hoped himself to bring peace back to the world.