When they reached the rectory, the servants might all have been grandmothers from the way they received the woman and her child.

“Give them a warm bath together,” said Helen, “as quickly as possible.—­And stay, let me out, Thomas—­I must go and get Martha some clothes.  I shan’t be a minute.”

The next time they returned, Wingfold, looking into the kitchen, could hardly believe the sweet face he saw by the fire, so refined in its comforted sadness, could be that of Martha.  He thought whether the fine linen, clean and white, may not help the righteousness even of the saints a little.

Their next take was a boat-load of children and an old grandmother.  Most of the houses had a higher story, and they took only those who had no refuge.  Many more, however, drank of their coffee and ate of their bread.  The whole of the morning they spent thus, calling, on their passages, wherever they thought they could get help or find accommodation.  By noon a score of boats were out rendering similar assistance.  The water was higher than it had been for many years, and was still rising.  Faber had laid hands upon an old tub of a salmon-coble, and was the first out after the curate.  But there was no fun in the poor doctor’s boat.  Once the curate’s and his met in the middle of Pine street—­both as full of people as they could carry.  Wingfold and Helen greeted Faber frankly and kindly.  He returned their greeting with solemn courtesy, rowing heavily past.

By lunch-time, Helen had her house almost full, and did not want to go again:  there was so much to be done!  But her husband persuaded her to give him one hour more:  the servants were doing so well! he said.  She yielded.  He rowed her to the church, taking up the sexton and his boy on their way.  There the crypts and vaults were full of water.  Old wood-carvings and bits of ancient coffins were floating about in them.  But the floor of the church was above the water:  he landed Helen dry in the porch, and led her to the organ-loft.  Now the organ was one of great power; seldom indeed, large as the church was, did they venture its full force:  he requested her to pull out every stop, and send the voice of the church, in full blast, into every corner of Glaston.  He would come back for her in half an hour and take her home.  He desired the sexton to leave all the doors open, and remember that the instrument would want every breath of wind he and his boy could raise.

He had just laid hold of his oars, when out of the porch rushed a roar of harmony that seemed to seize his boat and blow it away upon its mission like a feather—­for in the delight of the music the curate never felt the arms that urged it swiftly along.  After him it came pursuing, and wafted him mightily on.  Over the brown waters it went rolling, a grand billow of innumerable involving and involved waves.  He thought of the spirit of God that moved on the face of the primeval waters, and