The night waned.  She was exhausted by stress of feeling and the long vigil, but the iron, icy hand that had clasped her .heart so long did not for a moment relax its hold.  She went to the window and looked out.  Stars were paling, the mysterious East had trembled; soon it would be day.

She watched the dawn as though it were for the first time and she was privileged to stand upon some lofty peak when “God said:  ’Let there be light,’ and there was light.”  The tapestry of morning flamed splendidly across the night, reflecting its colour back upon her unveiled face.

From far away, in the distant hills, whose summits only as yet were touched with dawn, came faint, sweet music—­the pipes o’ Pan.  She guessed that the Piper was abroad with Laddie, in some fantastic spirit of sun-worship, and smiled.

Her little hour of triumph was over; her soul was once more back in its prison.  The prison house was larger, and different, but it was still a prison.  For an instant, freedom had flashed before her and dazed her; now it was dark again.

“Why?” breathed Evelina.  “Dear God, why?”

As if in answer, the music came back from the hills in uncertain silvery echoes.  “Oh, pipes o’ Pan,” cried Evelina, choking back a sob, “I pray you, find me!  I pray you, teach me joy!”

XV

The State of Araminta’s Soul

The Reverend Austin Thorpe was in his room at Miss Mehitable’s, with a pencil held loosely in his wrinkled hand.  On the table before him was a pile of rough copy paper, and at the top of the first sheet was written, in capitals, the one word:  “Hell.”  It was underlined, and around it he had drawn sundry fantastic flourishes and shadings, but the rest of the sheet was blank.

For more than an hour the old man had sat there, his blue, near-sighted eyes wandering about the room.  A self-appointed committee from his congregation had visited him and requested him to preach a sermon on the future abode of the wicked.  The wicked, as the minister gathered from the frank talk of the committee, included all who did not belong to their own sect.

Try as he might, the minister could find in his heart nothing save charity.  Anger and resentment were outside of his nature.  He told himself that he knew the world, and had experienced his share of injustice, that he had seen sin in all of its hideous phases.  Yet, even for the unrepentant sinner, Thorpe had only kindness.

Of one sin only, Thorpe failed in comprehension.  As he had said to Anthony Dexter, he could excuse a liar, pardon a thief, and pity a murderer, but he had only contempt for a shirk.

Persistently, he analysed and questioned himself, but got no further.  To him, all sin resolved itself at last into injustice, and he did not believe that any one was ever intentionally unjust.  But the congregation desired to hear of hell—­“as if,” thought Thorpe, whimsically, “I received daily reports.”